


heatwave

by imlonelyalready



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Emetophobia, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Minor Violence, Oh wait, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, better put that, considering that none of the other characters i had listed had talked yet, i figured it was safe to get rid of them for now, i know nothing about cars and its obvious, i really hate the damsel in distress trope but i was kinda in the mood for it so here ya go, i think, it's only mentioned nothing really happens but like, just in case, nothing else though!!, only non-con elements with being grabbed, sorry for typos!!, this is 100 percent indulgent trash and should be treated as such, uhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imlonelyalready/pseuds/imlonelyalready
Summary: CURRENTLY UNDER CONSTRUCTIONAKA, I read your guys' comments and ilyasm, i can't believe i have so many amazing people who believe in me and this story.i am in the process of rewriting this! bear with me💛
Relationships: Scout (Team Fortress 2) & You, Sniper (Team Fortress 2)/Reader, Sniper (Team Fortress 2)/You
Comments: 47
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey!! the idea for this smacked me upside the head at four in the afternoon two days ago. don'tcha just love when motivation strikes you randomly? me too. anyway! this is my first fic for this fandom, and my hope is to not delete it in a few months out of embarrassment. i won't do that again.
> 
> ~~~~  
> _hopefully._  
> 
> 
> anyway! this is all i have written for it so far, and i'll definitely be writing more for myself. but if you guys like it, i'd be more than happy to post more on this! just don't want to be shouting to the void if there aren't too many people into it.
> 
> to be clear, this _is_ a self-insert fic. one of my first, actually. but, i literally could NOT write it like "[y/n] walked over and sat down". while i respect people who write that way, it personally drives me crazy to write. only time you'll see [y/n] is when a character directly addresses ya!
> 
> if you liked this, lemme know! seriously, comments keep writers going, so i'd super appreciate it and love you forever.
> 
> enjoy!!

The bar didn’t seem so bad from the outside. Truly. Aside from being nearly the only building with air conditioning— _a rare sight_ —the outside porch was clean and barren of any patrons. Bold of her to assume that meant it was empty at five o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday.

Flashy neon lights beckoned her as she sat in her car, pondering her options. Stay in the car with its shitty vents wheezing recycled desert air back in her face, or test her resolve in a dusty bar that very well may have functional air conditioning? Not much of a choice there.

She really didn’t want to stick around in the crap-hole of a town. On her way through New Mexico, she had stopped a few times for gas and supplies. Teufort was her fourth pit-stop, and it was needed, though not wanted. Her car’s internal temperature was akin to that of Hell; hot, and torturous. And it seemed to be getting worse. The outside heat, as it was, was more preferable.

Leaving around nightfall seemed to be the best course of action, even if it put her much needed sleep on the chopping block. Drive during the day with the sun beating down on the thin, rusted, metal roof with no reprieve? Hard fucking pass. At least until she got her car looked at. She’d rather be exhausted than have one foot in the grave due to heatstroke.

But that meant she had to stay for, oh, about _four more_ hours until sundown. Less than great.

The dry summer heat settled over everything in the town, its stale air effortlessly strangling the will to live out of everything it touched. It was suffocating and aggravatingly inescapable. The only thing that made it _moderately_ tolerable, it seemed, was the apparent lack of humidity. Though, she wasn’t counting her stars for that, no, sir, not while the stagnant air pressed on her skin, causing beads of sweat to roll down her forehead. Perspiration clung to every available inch of her frame, clothed or not. She was surprised the dry heat hadn’t given her a nosebleed yet.

She’d never been one to show skin—it made her feel uncomfortably vulnerable—but, the heat seemed to stuff that _silly_ little preference so far up her ass, she could almost laugh about it if she wasn’t so irritable.

With a huff, she yanked her denim bag from the passenger seat and peeled herself from the leather sticking to her back. While wearing a camisole did allow direct airflow on the skin, it also allowed other things to be in direct contact with her skin. Like faux leather that smelled like musty cigarettes. And that shit stuck to skin like _glue._

She slung her bag over her right shoulder and slammed the car door shut as she ran a hand through her hair. With a grimace, she noted the nape of her neck was completely drenched with sweat. Gross.

Gravel crunched and popped under her keds when she walked to the establishment. As she neared the wooden steps, she could hear the faint buzz the neons made, their sickly bright colors not doing much in the broad daylight. Above her, two lazy ceiling fans turned uselessly.

Standing before the door, she could feel her palms go from moist to drenched. Damned nerves. Public places always exacerbated them.

Swallowing her heart for the millionth time, she reached for the handle on the door and made her way in.

Cool air ghosted over her before escaping into the hellish landscape behind her. The interior was old and grimy, but not too terrible. Whiskey assaulted her nose as she stood there and the smog of cigarette smoke pricked at her lungs, daring her to cough.

It was fine. She could handle this for a few hours.

“Shut the damn door!” a voice screeched from behind the bar. Instinctively, she kicked the door shut and felt embarrassment creep under her skin. “You’re lettin’ bought air out, ungrateful…”. The rest trailed off as the woman behind the voice turned toward the wall of drinks.

She grabbed the strap on her bag with both hands and wrung it, awkwardly shuffling to the most secluded booth in the entire bar. Not really necessary, as the joint only had a handful of poor sods straggling up around where the barkeep was. Where was..?

Her head snapped up as the bartender—waitress, too?—was suddenly in front of her, tapping her pen against the notepad in her hands impatiently. “Well, honey, ya gonna buy something?” She was a curvaceous woman, older, but very beautiful.

Sadness unexpectedly tugged at her chest as she pondered if this town was all this woman ever knew. If this bar was all she ever envisioned for herself.

The bronze-skinned woman looked at her expectantly, eyes showing how exhausted she really was.

“Darlin’, I don’t have all day, make a decision or—”

“Sorry, I’ll have a water,” she rushed out, but was met with a face.

“Just a water? You come in here, and ask for only a water, wasting my damn good—”

“And, uh, a—” the young woman struggled, “A small basket of fries. Please.” _Shit. Fuck. Shit._

The bartender—her name tag read ‘Barb’—seemed placated by her order and she wrote it down swiftly.

“It’ll be right out,” Barb said and left before the young woman could stutter a ‘thank you’.

She let out a breath and sunk a little lower in the surprisingly comfortable booth seat, watching Barb leave to tell the cook about her order of fries. For that being the most agonizing exchange of words she’d had in a while, she felt exhilarated. It had been days since she’d last talked to someone, and while she was loathe to accept it, it _did_ feel nice to be just a bumbling idiot for once. The anonymity of being a simple tourist gave her a sense of boldness. It was… well, admittedly, it felt freeing.

It’s not like anyone would ever remember her after today.

*******

It had been two hours and forty-seven minutes since Barb had brought out her water and fries. The water was amazing, God, she hadn’t realized she’d been so thirsty. The fries, however, left something to be desired. But then again, she didn’t come in for the food and most people that came to a bar didn’t either.

Her secluded booth was in the far left corner of the building; the wall was to her right, the mass of the seating area to her left, and a large bay window at the entrance in front of her, to her delight.

She gazed out the window and watched people run back and forth from the buildings to their cars. It felt good to people-watch again. Driving had started off, and continued to be, fun and exciting—a bright and shiny beginning of a new adventure. There were so many things she hadn’t seen yet, and she couldn’t get enough of the ever-changing scenery. But, still, it was hard to read people behind a windshield at seventy-five miles per hour.

A radio by the counter clashed with the tunes droning from the jukebox, and she couldn’t understand why no one shut it off. The smell of whiskey was becoming more tolerable, and the smell of cigarettes was practically unnoticeable by now. She couldn’t determine if that was a good thing or not.

*******

She looked down, checked her watch, _again_ , and took note of a rather large truck that had parked out in front of the window when she brought her gaze back up. It was an older farming truck—diesel from the sound of it. The paint job had faded from what she supposed used to be a vibrant red to a dull, dusty salmon. The tailgate was occupied; three men sat on wooden crates and stacks of hay like makeshift seats, while three additional men sat in the truck’s cabin.

The youngest one of the men leapt over the side of the truck, waving his hands enthusiastically when his feet hit the gravel. Upon standing in the bed of the truck, the other two men shoved each other playfully, laughing good-naturedly all the while. They appeared to be good friends. A small smile appeared on her face as she watched—their jubilant behavior was endearing.

Movement at the front of the truck pulled her eyes away from the poor boy who was getting noogied quite ruthlessly by the two older men.

A kind looking gentleman slid from the driver’s seat, followed closely by a man in a rather fancy looking suit. The two appeared to be discussing something important, as the shorter man in overalls furrowed his brows whilst rubbing the back of his head.

Coming around the rusty bumper of the truck, a very tall man in a hat and aviators appeared and popped into the group. He was the only one that wasn’t talking with anyone.

A minuscule frown tugged at the corners of her mouth.

What were any of them doing together? They all seemed to get along well, but she couldn’t understand how all of them were friends. Were they neighbors? Maybe. Family? Possibly, a very dysfunctional one, sure, but a possibility no less. Coworkers? Also plausible.

Watching the gaggle of men make their way to the porch, she realized how much louder it had gotten inside the bar. Turning around, her eyes widened upon seeing the amount of people in the sitting area. Had she really been that lost in her thoughts earlier to not notice the swell of people? A quick glance at her watch told her it was now 7:23. Well, fuck, she really hadn’t been paying attention.

A large gust of hot air flooded the building as the one in the suit opened the door, the group’s raucous laughter and chatter preceding them. The youngest one immediately ran in and began pushing two tables together and snatching open chairs, all while laughing at the general souring of those in his path. He was quite loud—loud enough to be heard over the normal bar noise.

“‘Ey, fatass, get outta my way, I need ta get through. Gotta chair here!” he alerted before bolting past anyway, and sliding the chair in the direction of the two tables.

The man Barb called Willy earlier barked angrily as he jabbed his fork in the boy’s direction, “Ay, shut the fuck up, pipsqueak, people come ‘ere ta relax and drink a beer _withou’_ a kid yammerin’ in their ear.”

Snapping around and facing Willy, the boy’s top lip pulled over his large teeth in a lopsided attempt at a snarl.

“Oh, I _know_ you ain’t talkin’ ta me, asshole,” he bit out, smacking his taped hands against his chest. “‘Cause if ya were, ya woulda said tha’ ta _my face_.” Willy began to retort, his face screwed up in belligerence before he stopped short.

Why? She nearly snorted. The boy wasn’t intimidating, merely loud and obnoxious—

Wait. 

His _eyes_ , fucking hell.

Quite suddenly, she remembered her mom telling her once that “you could always spot a crazy one” by their eyes. She’d never had much use for that tidbit of “invaluable knowledge”, as her mom put it. But right now? Yeah, that boy had _very_ bad intent on display in those baby-blues.

A shiver ran down her spine and she turned back around again, determined to forget the look. No need for her to get involved in a bar blood-bath. With the way things were going, there might be a full on brawl.

“Scout,” a man—one of the men that came with him?—called out, the word shrouded by his thick French accent. It sounded like a warning.

“Wh— _wha’_?” Scout stuttered, “He fuckin’ started it, obviously.” She concentrated very intently on her basket of limp fries.

The Frenchman sighed, “I do not care, you muzt apologize. How many times need I tell you, _imbecile_ , zhis iz a public place, you cannot fight wiz anyone.” From the sound of it, Scout sat down, scraping the chair legs loudly against the wooden flooring in the process.

“Sorry, _asshole_ ,” the boy grumbled, “Continue gettin’ piss drunk.” She heard no more rebuttals from anyone, not even from Willy. The little spat must be over.

What power did the Frenchman have over that Scout kid? Was he the leader of the rag-tag group? A father-figure for the kid? _Was he just as disturbed?_

She checked her watch again. Just a little under two hours before sundown. 

***

Jabbing at the ice in her cup with the straw, she willed it to melt. The cup had been empty for an half hour, and she hadn’t wanted to flag down Barb, or worse, get up and go find her herself. Damnit, she was thirsty. 

Hesitantly, she chanced a glance behind her shoulder and eyed the crowd. The group of men that came in on the farming truck were all chatting amiably amongst themselves. Two of them were smoking and all of them, save for the driver, had a beer in their hand. The man with the eye patch seemed to be downing the alcohol at an alarming rate.

If she didn’t know any better, she could say she had imagined the glare the boy had given to poor Willy. He looked… well, completely _normal_ now. A little flushed from the beer, but otherwise, fine.

She was being ridiculous. Yeah. Nothing happened, no one was in any danger. All she needed to do was find Barb.

Taking a deep breath, she ignored the somersault her stomach did when the noxious smell of alcohol punched her nostrils. _Why_ was it so pungent?

Grabbing her glass cup, she picked out the straw and threw it back onto the table, and made her way to the rear of the bar. She kept her gaze trained carefully on the dust-ridden buck mounted on the wall, hoping to attract as little attention as possible.

“Well, _‘ey_ there, good lookin’!”

She visibly cringed when she heard the words fall from the boy’s mouth. _Fuck_. Her grip tightened on the cup, and she stiffly angled her head toward the table. Five and a half sets of eyes stared back at her, including the pair hidden behind the aviators.

Being around this many people, _alone_ , made her nervous. Right now, she felt terribly outnumbered against the barfolk who obviously had the home-field advantage. She wasn’t a fool, she knew it was dangerous to be travelling alone in this day and age. Especially being a woman, and travelling alone. Some shred of hope, however, still lingered. Maybe she’d skate away from this town with little to no issues.

But, man, was this boy making it hard to keep that hope.

A shit-eating grin was plastered onto his face, his eyebrows raised in what she guessed he figured to be a dashing manner. His dimples betrayed his age, showing his youth for what it really was. Unlike his other comrades, he sported no five o’clock shadow or any hint of stubble. Completely baby-faced. She estimated that he wasn’t that much younger than her.

He was cute, she’d give him that. Had she been looking for it, his comment may have made her interested. But now? It just made her fucking pissed.

Adding salt onto the ever-growing pride-based wound, he flexed his muscles. Prick.

“Did mah handsomeness and awesomeness strike ya dumb, _doe-eyes_?” he asked whilst leaning forward, his eyes peering up under lowered lids. Jealousy flared up under her skin when she saw how long his eyelashes were.

At her obvious staring, his grin grew double the size, despite her thinking it physically impossible.

The man with—ugh, just call him _Aviators_ —booted the kid under the table, rattling all the silverware. Anger and something else she didn’t quite want to name pooled inside his baby-blues, freezing her down to the bone. _If looks could kill._

She lowered the cup to her side and faced him properly, the fury that had been sparking in the pit of her stomach felt like it’d been doused in cold water.

Opening her mouth, she weighed the consequences of the words she might’ve said before deciding against it. Insulting the possibly unhinged boy probably wouldn’t be the best course of action. She had self-respect, but she didn’t have a death wish. Better to just walk away.

The boy began to sputter as she walked away, not quite sure how to rebound from being straight-up ignored. Aviators chuckled into his beer and the Frenchman blew smoke from his cigarette in the kid’s direction, amusement painting his features.

Making her way to the bar, she spotted Barb cleaning a glass and chatting with a sober-enough patron. A proverbial beacon of light in the dark. Thank fuck.

“Hello, Barb,” she waved timidly.

The barkeep looked up, her face a testament to exhaustion and annoyance. “Yeah, honey?”

“I, uh, was wondering if I could have some more water, please?” she queried as she held up her empty cup. Barb made a grabby motion with her rag-holding hand, and she forked over the glass.

As Barb went to fill it up, she started to count all the taps on the wall. She was shocked at the number of them. Maybe this town wasn’t as desolate as she had once thought; the bar could certainly attest to that. There were a lot of people in it, and more were filing in by the minute.

Another glance at her watch told her she had another hour to go. The light from the large window behind her was tinged with a golden hue and it was streaming right into her booth.

Something warm touched her arm and she shrunk back, alarmed. Peering down, she saw a hand on her forearm, nails untrimmed and fingers yellowed from years of chain smoking. The hand belonged to an older man, a lot older.

“Hello,” the man purred, his voice warbly and cracked. His large, wire-framed glasses kept falling down the bridge of his nose even after he pushed them back up with his free hand. He offered her a predatory grin.

He leaned forward and bent down to meet her height. She hated that even more.

With his grip, he pushed her into the jukebox before opening his mouth again.

“I w-watched ya come in,” he hiccuped. Her stomach dropped. Did he know her car? Had he been watching her all this time? Panic seeped into her bloodstream as she thought about him following her to her vehicle. She wouldn’t be able to fight him off. “You’ve been sittin’ pretty an’ all alone in that booth. I th-thought I’d come and introduce myself.” _Please get away from me please get away from me please—_

His grip was iron-like as he crowded her even more. The ridges on the side of the jukebox were pressing into her back, its music piercing her eardrums.

“... _burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire, the ring…_ ”.

Johnny Cash was _really_ fucking loud in her ear and she didn’t appreciate it.

His hand was sticky and the rest of him appeared to be just as sweaty. He stunk of beer and shitty cigarettes. She felt bile rise in her throat when she tried pulling away again to no avail. The stranger was swaying where he stood, clearly drunk, but he never let go of her arm.

“Please, let—let _go_ ,” she yelled, “Please let go of my arm! _Right—right now_!” Her other hand latched onto the one holding her captive, trying to pull his nasty fucking fingers off her skin, but he was stronger than she had anticipated.

She yanked away from his grasp with all her might. Again. Again. Her heart was pounding against her ribs, trying to break free of its calcium cage and man, she felt like throwing up.

“... _went down, down, down, and the flames went…_ ”.

_Shut the fuck up, Johnny!_

She thought she could hear Barb behind her, yelling at the man _thank you Barb oh my god help_ , but the song was so loud, _why_ couldn’t she just break free of his hold, _why couldn’t she—_

“Oi, ‘ow ‘bout ya let her go?” a man, clearly Australian, growled out from behind the sludge-ball that currently had a vice-like grip on her arm.

The man turned his head slowly, dumbly, and allowed her to get a good look at— _Aviators_? He’s…?

“Oh, yeah? W-what’re ya gonna do if I don’t, bean pole? Screw o-off, I’m busy here,” the rat hiccupped while he shoved one of his gross, yellowed fingers into the Aussie’s chest, his beer sloshing against its glass. The implication of him being _busy_ made her skin itch.

His grip slowly loosened on her arm as he continued to talk, and she took the chance to rip her arm free and move, plastering herself to the front of the jukebox. She was too afraid to move away. _Stupid_.

Seeing she was out of the way, the bushman pulled back a fist and socked the son of bitch in the jaw, knocking him out cold before he even hit the floor. Beer splashed everywhere on the floor and walls. Regrettably, she felt some splash her jeans. In the light, the glass glittered in shards after the pint shattered.

Funny how she couldn’t hear Johnny anymore.

The Aussie turned to her abruptly and checked her arm, keeping his distance. She might have bruises, but otherwise, she was physically fine.

“Ya alroight?” he questioned, concern creeping into his voice. Too shocked to answer, she looked down at the unconscious man on the floor to her left then back up to him. This was more action then she’d seen in her lifetime. It would take _another_ whole lifetime to process and chew this to death before she’d be able to accurately say she was okay. But for now…

“Y-yeah, I’m okay. Thank you? Yeah, thank you. Thank you, _God_ , what was I thinking, I didn’t—what the fuck am I _doing_ here, fuck, shit, I’m rambling, _t-thank you_ I’m gonna—” she audibly clacked her jaw shut to keep from spewing anymore nonsense, a blush of embarrassment flushing her face.

The aroma of the man’s beer made her want to vomit. She wanted to burn the jeans.

Aviators just stood there, silent while he watched her reel. Finally, she noticed the whole bar was hushed. Everyone was looking in their direction. Her blush grew, making her feel like she was having an actual fucking heatstroke. She needed to leave. Now. Right now. God, was she going to throw up?

Moving her feet from the place they had been glued to took a lot more of effort than she had anticipated, and she tripped more than once on the way back to her booth. Glass crunched under her keds and the noise echoed loudly against the walls. This was the absolute _worst_.

She refused to look at anyone as she dropped three ten dollar bills on the table with shaky hands. For the drink, the fries, the air conditioning, the refill she never got to enjoy, and for the broken pint glass. And, of course, a tip.

Seizing her bag, she clutched its worn strap in her hand and made a mad-dash for the door. Whispers and the music began to pick up as the door-chime jangled when she made her way back out into the sweltering heat. A furtive glance at her watch told her she had approximately forty-three minutes left until sundown, but she couldn’t give less of a shit. It would be cool enough soon, and that was fine.

Gravel sprayed up from behind her feet as she neared her piece of shit car. Her mind was reeling and she was suddenly very exhausted and wow, why can’t she unlock her car?

The sound of the bar door jingling grabbed her attention. Turning her gaze toward the bar’s main entrance, she noted the tall bushman making his way to her. _Crap_.

She tried to pick up the pace at which she was unlocking her car, but her hands were shaking and all she managed to do was scratch the door handle to hell with the key. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

“Hey,” Aviators said softly, like he was afraid she’d spook and vanish into thin air. She nearly snorted at how she actually might.

Realizing he wasn’t going to attack her, too, she stuffed her keys back into her bag with a growl. She laid her sweaty head on the car door window.

“Hey,” she muttered back. “I’m sorry for leaving so suddenly.” She rolled her head against the glass so she could look at him. He was tall, about a head and a half taller. Older, too. While the lines in his face carbon-dated him, it gave him a very rugged, experienced look. He was quite handsome. She wondered what color his eyes were behind the piss-tinted sunglasses. Blue? Brown? Either seemed to suit him. _What the fuck? What am I doing?_

“Aye understand. Jus’ wanted ta introduce myself properly before ya go.” He shifted on his feet. “An’ to tell ya that tha bar isn’t too—too trustin’ of my group, always expectin’ violence from one o’ us,” he explained as he stuffed his hands in his blue jeans. Christ, they looked old and worn.

He chuckled darkly. “Guess they got wha’ they always feared back there,” a pause, a sigh. “Sorry ta drag ya into that, shouldn’t o’ let my anger get tha best o’ me. Tha wanka deserved wha he got, though.”

She got the feeling that one-sided dialogue wasn’t his forte.

Pitying him slightly, she pushed herself off the burning car and walked toward him with an outstretched hand.

“Thank you for the apology, even if it wasn’t really your fault.” She scratched the back of her head. “I, um, I hope the bar doesn’t give you too much trouble for intervening.” His enormous, warm hand slid into hers and shook firmly. Internally, she jumped in shock at how calloused his hand was. She deduced he must do some type of handiwork, or used to. “You can call me [y/n], I’m just passing through town. I’m on, uh,” she stopped to consider what she wanted to tell him, “I’m on a road trip of sorts.” There, not quite a lie, not quite the truth.

“Ya can call me Mundy,” a small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Tha men ya saw me with at tha bar?” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, “They’re colleagues o’ mine. Family, too.” He spoke of them fondly, and she couldn’t help but return his smile.

Realizing they were still holding each other’s hands, she let go, awkwardly. His brows shot up and back down quickly before burying his hands back in his pockets.

He interrupted her staring, “Aye’d like to apologize for Scout back there, he’s, uh—a bloody idiot. Dunno how ta talk ta people, let alone women.” His eye roll was audible. “Doesn’t excuse his behavior in tha slightest.”

“I… again, I appreciate your apology, even if you shouldn’t really be apologizing to me,” she said, amused, but grateful. Mundy shrugged with a small grin.

“Tha bugger’ll learn one day. Someone will have ta beat some sense into tha’ thick skull.” She nodded as he spoke, not quite sure what to say after that. _Fight_ him? Whoever would do that would surely be a dead man, or close to it.

Looking over to the skyline, she noted the sun was close to setting. Reds and oranges and yellows and blues smeared together in the sky, creating a whole painter’s palette of complementary and tertiary colors. She wanted to stay and watch it. But... _Time to go_.

She sighed. “Thank you, again. If you hadn’t been there,” she shuddered, “In any case, I’m just thankful.” She grinned genuinely at him, “But I’ve got to get going now.” Jabbing a thumb back toward the direction of her car, she began to dig around in her bag for her keys.

So quick, she swore she imagined it, his brows turned down slightly before going back into place.

“Aye see, well, uh. It sure was nice meetin’ ya, [y/n]. Enjoy ya ‘road trip o’ sorts’,” Mundy chuckled with a peculiar eyebrow raise as he repeated her words. She had a feeling he knew she’d told a half-truth.

“‘Bye, Mundy.” Waving to him, she felt that sadness that came with partings settle in her stomach. She watched him turn to go.

Finally, her hand closed around her keys. No longer shaking, her hands smoothly put the key in the door lock and shimmied it open. Oh, _God_. It was like Satan himself breathed on her when the stale air escaped the cabin of her car. Damn.

Plopping onto the leather seat, she dumped her bag back into the passenger seat and closed the door. Taking a deep breath, she looked over the dash and saw Mundy standing there on the bar’s porch, lighting a cigarette. Being surrounded by smokers and smoke for the entirety of the evening should’ve turned her off from the sight, but with him… it didn’t. Strange.

She shook her head as she crammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine roared to life under her hands before settling to a low grumble. She sat her hands on the wheel and considered her options, watching the brightening and the dimming of the end of Mundy’s cigarette out in the distance.

It was definitely cooler, cool enough to drive now. She rubbed at her burning eyes with a hum. But she was just too fucking _tired_ to. So much had happened in such a small amount of time… she needed time to process it all.

Earlier, on her way into Teufort, she had spotted a small, run-down motel off the highway. Internally she winced. The prospect of staying in a fucking motel turned her off so badly, but there was no way she could keep her eyes open, let alone drive for however long it was until the next pit-stop.

Sliding the gear into drive, she turned the wheel and headed out the way she drove in.

*******

She hardly remembered talking with the woman behind the counter at the front desk. The woman had tossed her a key before sinking into her folding chair and shoving her nose back in between the pages of a dollar store romance novel. She would know, she’d read it before.

The number pressed into the leather dangling from the key matched the plaque mounted on the door she now stood in front of—‘12’. Even though it was chipped and cracking everywhere, it was painted a dull red. It reminded her of the farming truck that was at the bar, and of Mundy’s long sleeve shirt—how he managed to wear it in the summer desert heat, she didn’t know.

Shaking her head free of the thoughts, she pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door opened with a loud creak, and the smell of stale air and— _surprise_ —cigarettes seeped out into the air behind her.

She fumbled a hand against the wallpapered wall to her left, feeling for a light switch. _There_. Flipping it on, the sight of a bed, a small bedside table, a futon and wardrobe met her eyes. Prying her eyes away from the bed—God, she wanted to _sleep_ —she noted the existence of a bathroom behind the wall that held the wardrobe.

With a plop, she dropped her bag on the bedside table and began taking off her shoes. She’d get the rest of her shit out of her car tomorrow, but for now…

One shoe fell to the floor as she held onto the other one. She raised her arm and aimed, then let it fly at the switch. It hit its mark with a glorious smack and darkness settled over the room.

As she laid there, the images of the last four hours played like a movie reel behind her eyelids. _Smashing glass. The smell of beer. Mundy’s aviators. Barb with her dishrag. An unwelcome hand on her arm. Mundy’s voice...Soggy fries...Wire-framed glasses...Mundy’s smile...Her car...Mundy…_

Sleep came soon after that.

*******


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A town trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy! i'm,,,,, sorry this took a bit. the chapter has been technically finished for a week now, but i was unhappy with the majority of it. I've been re-writing a _lot_ , and i'm glad i have been!
> 
> alright, some notes before we start! first and foremost, your immersion in the story is my main goal. i want to make this believable, enjoyable, but still fun enough to not be too _serious_. i'm new to adulthood, there's a lot i don't know, so i offer my sincerest apologies if there is something I've gotten wrong. 
> 
> that being said, there are a few holes in [y/n]'s life that i have to fill in on my own to make things work. from this chapter on, things you read about [y/n]'s past will be purely for making sense of the story. i.e., where she came from, why she is the way she is, etc. my point is _not_ to pull you from the immersion. the same can be said for smaller characters, such as Barb and Willy from the bar, and John the cashier. i understand how using specific names for Barb and Willy could break the immersion and my apologies for that. as for John, i included it because, as you'll read, it provides insight on Mundy's character and his interactions with the townsfolk. take what you will from that!
> 
> the year is 1968, and we are staged in Teufort, New Mexico. some aspects of the town are derived from the comics, but you needn't to have read the comics to read this, i just thought it'd be cool to add some stuff from them. and again, my apologies if i get stuff wrong from those, too, it's been a while since I've read them.
> 
> all in all, i'm writing this to have fun, and only that. my writing isn't amazing, i'm fully aware, and holy moly i couldn't tell you what a plotline is, but i'm doing my best. not only for myself, but for you guys as well :-)
> 
> thank you so much for reading this, if you have. please enjoy this new chapter!!!
> 
> p.s., for your convenience, $1.00 in 2020 would be about $0.14 in 1968. also [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MiY5auB3OWg) is the song that i reference later!

The sun glared through the drawn curtains, coating the floor and the bedside in a sickly golden hue. It was currently noontime, with the sun proudly boasting its light far up in the sky for all to see, curtains be damned.

With a groan, she tossed an arm over her eyes and rolled over into the musty sheets. She was vainly chasing a few more moments of that fluffy sleep-limbo, but it was slipping like sand between her fingers as consciousness stirred behind her eyelids.

Her eyes burned instantly upon cracking them open, and her mouth tasted like a dumpster fire. Ugh. Probably smelled like one, too. She ran a hand over her face with a moan and turned onto her back once more, eyes set in a glare at the worthless curtains. Who the hell thought to put them in there? Were they blind?

As she sat up, she became acutely aware of the bodily functions she had unknowingly ignored the previous night. Her bladder was crying insistently— _annoyingly_ —and her stomach was tight as it grumbled over its meager contents. Apparently, soggy bar fries did not constitute a proper dinner.

Oh. The bar.

The events of yesterday came crashing down on her like a barrage of bullets. She realized she wasn’t so tired anymore. The entirety of her “road trip” had been calm, uneventful even—up until yesterday. She’d had no upsets or issues from anyone— _up until yesterday_. The sick tang of booze assaulted her nose and made her feel nauseous; to her horror, she was still in the same clothes as yesterday. The fucking stain on her jeans was still there.

A voracious, yellow smile shoved itself to the forefront of her mind’s eye, pushing every other thought out of the proverbial window in the process. Her skin crawled.

With a loud grunt, she put her feet on the ground and stood up as she shook her head to dispel the ugly brooding session. _No_. Hopefully, that rat scurried back to whatever Hell-hole he’d come from and didn’t bother anyone else in the bar after she’d left. _Stop thinking about it_. Shakily, she drug a hand down her face. She wasn’t going to ruin today by worrying about yesterday, there was no point. There were more important things to do. _Like_ , food shopping, and getting her car to a mechanic. That piece of shit beater needed to last her at least another 3,000 miles.

The man who’d sold it to her had been the embodiment of greed in a tacky suit. Back in her hometown, he’d been the _only_ car salesman. Rumor had it that he kept all the other Oldsmobile men out of business, one way or another.

He’d owned five different lots of junkers, as well as vehicles she could only truly consider to be scrap-metal on wheels. The machines he sold were a lawsuit just _waiting_ to happen, but she knew, just like everyone else, that he was a weasel that’d get out of anything. Money does wondrous things.

He’d upsold her the car sitting outside the motel now, knowing damn well there was no way she could refuse. Options were limited. If only she knew then that thing would be causing her such problems. Hindsight’s 20/20, and all that. The heat it gave off could rival the fucking _sun_.

She… she _really_ didn’t want to, but she needed to find out what was wrong with the car before it became completely irreparable.

***

After carting her wares from the back of her car and into the motel, she had splurged in an ice-cold shower. Well, not really _splurged_ , as someone spitting on her could’ve done a better job than the showerhead did. The water pressure fucking sucked. But the cool temperature was nice, nonetheless. Getting out of those putrid clothes also did wonders for her mood.

Much to her relief, the sock she kept in a tin under her passenger seat was still there, untouched. She shuddered to think what would become of her without her money. She’d be stranded here; nearly carless and without food, not to mention she’d only paid for two nights at the motel. It… wouldn’t be great, honestly.

As she slammed the passenger car door shut, she made her way around the front of the car and stopped dead in her tracks. Uh. The paint on the hood of her car was...blistered? She leaned in and ran a tentative hand over the hood, feeling the bubbled metallic paint. That didn’t—that doesn’t look— _Fuck_ , okay, that does _not_ look good. At all.

Snatching her hand back, her eyebrows pinched together. Was it safe to drive? Could she make it to town? She was sure it wouldn’t blow up, but if it stalled out or—or… Look, she couldn’t afford a tow truck. The prospect of needing a mechanic was _already_ making the sock ugly-cry in its aluminum prison under the passenger seat.

Okay, this is fine.

She slid into the driver seat cautiously, hands loosely holding onto the wheel, as if the car would randomly explode if she simply breathed wrong. Hah. That couldn’t happen.

Yeah.

***

The two-mile drive into town was silent and uneventful—thank _God_ —but hotter than anything she’d ever felt. Her hair stuck to her face, and her shirt clung uncomfortably to her skin.

Having the windows down did offer little respite, however. The hair that wasn’t clutching onto her face had taken a liking to flying crazily in the wind, but she considered that an acceptable sacrifice. It’s not as if she had spent an hour doing her hair—she’d be livid, then, if she had—she just wished it wouldn’t look like a rats nest, in case she saw anyone. _Unlikely_ as that was.

Soon after passing a smattering of cacti, she drove past the town’s central statue and its fucking _dump_ lumped around it. Damn, this town was a _shithole_. And to boot, the dump in the square blocked the only pizza joint in town. She found that more than a little disappointing. With a sigh, she resigned herself to the fate of eating only Tastykakes for the next few days. Maybe she’d find an actual grocery store eventually.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a little Five-and-Dime type market a few buildings from the bar. She didn’t know how she had missed it yesterday, the town wasn’t that big. 

Hand over hand, she turned the wheel as she pulled into the market’s parking lot. She began to wonder if its size had to do with why she’d taken an immediate disliking to the town—aside from the fact it was hot as _fuck_ and a dump heap, for the lack of a better term. The close quarters, tight-nit functionality of all small towns was claustrophobic, at best. And she didn’t just mean in terms of the town layout.

With a frown, she forced the troublesome thought out of her head. No reason to think about cliques when she never stayed in a place long enough to find one.

She dropped the gear into park.

The front of the market was quite dilapidated; one of the windows was boarded up with a slab of plywood, and the other window looked like it hadn’t been properly washed in ages. She wouldn’t be surprised to know that it couldn’t open, either. Had she not seen a frazzled woman in a purple business outfit burst through its front doors, she would have thought it abandoned.

Watching the woman skitter to the peculiar, purple scooter parked several spaces down from her, she began to create a list of things she needed from the market; Food that couldn’t spoil in heat (so, _junk food_ )—that elicited a low growl from her stomach—hygiene products—these two days in the seat of Satan’s pants gave her an insight to how much of a sweaty mess she could be—and directions to the closest mechanic. Dust kicked up behind the wheel of the scooter as the woman sped away.

She plucked her bag off the leather seat to her right and swung open the driver’s side door. It was nearly ten degrees cooler outside than inside the cab. That… wasn’t a good sign.

The gray camisole she sported today clung to her skin like the most bothersome of pests, causing her to pinch and pull at the fabric as she made her way up the rickety market stairs. A thin layer of desert dust coated the porch like a blanket, save for a spot of straight-up garbage that sat in a heap a few paces away from her feet.

Face contorted in mild disgust, she pulled open the door— _did every door in this town have a bell?_ —and made her way in. The building only had fans, regrettably, spinning lazily above all the aisles. Might as well be quick. The stuffy air was already beginning to settle on her chest in a very unsavory way.

***

Ten minutes later, her arms were full of various packages of food, soaps, toilet paper—the crap back at the motel could only really be classified as fucking _sandpaper_ , okay—and raspberry popsicles. When she stumbled upon the freezers in the back, she’d had to wipe a hand across the frosty glass to see what was inside, but, to her extreme delight, there was a myriad of frozen treats to pick from. Maybe she’d come back for ice cream later.

She had grabbed four popsicles and tucked them under her arm. The market, surprisingly, had an alright selection. Limited, for sure, but she’d never been a connoisseur of name-brands, so she figured the one they had was fine enough. Though she’d never heard of any brands from a company called “Mann”, so that posed a few questions.

On her way to the register, she spotted the sunglass display. Looking down near her keds, all the way at the bottom, she noticed a pair of aviators. They reminded her of the pair Mundy had on yesterday. A smile broke across her face as she snagged them, and slid them onto the bridge of her nose. Her eyebrows shot up as her world was suddenly painted in a yellow hue. They didn’t do wonders for her inside—quite the contrary, as everything was now harder to make out— but she bet they were great against that tyrant of a sun.

Deciding she wanted to buy them—for reasons—she heard the distinct rumble then hush of a diesel truck’s engine cutting out. She stalled for a moment, before remembering nearly _everyone_ in this town had a diesel truck. This was hill-billy Hell, after all. She couldn’t shake the familiarity of it, however.

She brought her hand up to take them off when the jingle of the door’s bell caught her attention. Oh.

_Oh._

In the frame of the double doors stood Mundy... and Scout. Her mouth went dry—nerves, _obviously_ —and her palms became slick. They seemed to be shocked to see her, too.

A toothy grin took over Scout’s face.

“Well, _hey_ there, baby-doll—” Scout managed to put out before he was met with a harsh smack to the base of his skull. His baseball cap nearly fell off. Mundy’s mouth was turned down in a harsh scowl as he brought his hand back to his side. The metallic anger she had tasted on her tongue yesterday started crawling its way onto the back of her tongue.

Scout rubbed the back of his head with a taped hand and readjusted his hat, whilst staring daggers at the bushman. “What da _Hell_ was dat for?”

Irritation swirled deep in her stomach. He couldn’t be _that_ impervious to his own mouth, could he?

“ _Hey_ ,” she bit out, rage pooling on her tongue. He looked at her in a ' _Who? Me?_ ' kind of way before she started up. "You try that shit with me _one_ more time and I promise you, my foot _will_ go so far up your ass, you’ll be picking rubber out from between your teeth for a month.”

The fury subsided for a second, allowing her a brief moment of clarity. Ohh, hoo, _boy_. A rock formed in her stomach as reality came back and the confidence dwindled. She swallowed the need to bring her hand up to her mouth.

Did that piss him off? She couldn’t tell, he was too busy gaping like a fish. That was a good thing, she figured. Would he hurt her because she didn’t take it “as a compliment”? She’d heard _that_ one before; she couldn’t just sit back and take it one more time, no, sir. This kid was _not_ going to talk to her like that again.

But, goddamn, if her ma had heard her talk to someone like _that_ …

Relief hesitantly flooded over her as she realized that the kid likely wouldn’t hurt her in broad daylight. Plus, Mundy was there and appeared to be on her side, as he’d hit the Boston boy in her defense. Putting that much trust in a stranger was dangerous, most definitely, but she hoped to think that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her.

She couldn’t help but brace herself anyway.

Mundy’s mouth was slightly agape and Scout still looked like a fish trying to breathe air. Not an ounce of ill will brushed the kid’s features—and thank _fuck_ for that. After thirty seconds of awkward staring, the Aussie stood upright, crossed his arms, and turned his attention to the kid next to him. He nudged the boy with an elbow and motioned his hatted head in a ‘ _go on_ ’ type of motion. A modest blush painted Scout’s cheeks as he clasped a hand to the back of his neck. That was amusing to see.

“Okay— _okay_. I’m sorry, fa yesterday _an’_ today. Ma raised me betta than to talk to ladies that way.” His baby-blues met her own eyes, big as saucers, and instantly she knew his words were sincere, even if he was being somewhat caustic in the delivery of them. A small grin tugged at his lips. “Though I wouldn’ mind ya _tryin’_ to kick my ass some time.”

She might as well have rolled her eyes right out of their sockets and onto the wooden floor. Mundy drug an exasperated hand from the base of his aviators down his face, a tired sigh steaming from his nose.

“Has anyone told you,” she lolled her head partially to the side, “that you’re _exhausting_?”

His grin stole the lower half of his face.

Scout chuffed, “A few times, I think, but I stopped countin’ a while ago.” He waved a taped hand in front of him, “But I am sorry, Spy made sure o’ _that_ last nig—” Mundy elbowed the boy hard in the side, cutting his chuckle off. Scout whipped his head up at the Aussie, murderous intent masking his face, again, before it fell flat. What?

“Hah,” Scout laughed awkwardly, trying to fill the silence. He thrust a hand toward her. “Ya can call me Jeremy.” Her brows pinched slightly in confusion as she took his hand. The texture of the tape drove her crazy.

She introduced herself. “My name’s [y/n].” But… “Uh, Jeremy?” the boy in question nodded. “I thought I heard someone call you ‘Scout’ yester—” Again, Mundy butted in.

“So, what’re ya still doin’ here?” the bushman queried rather oddly. She wasn’t quite sure why the question cut her. Was she supposed to leave? No, he was probably just curious. In any case, something was definitely up, and she couldn’t quite understand what it was. Instead of pressing—though, she _really_ wanted to—she decided to throw the man a bone.

She nodded toward the doors they had been standing in a few minutes ago. “My car… it’s not doing well,” she explained with a sigh, “I figured I’d get some stuff from here and ask around about a mechanic.” Scout—Jeremy?—piqued at that, his jovial disposition rearing its head again.

“Hey, we know a guy tha’s _real_ good with machines,” he smiled his toothy smile, obviously happy to be giving her this information. Jeremy looked up at Mundy as if expecting him to back him up. The tall man looked like he’d do no such thing. The Bostonian turned back to face her, regardless. “Yeah, Engie’s real good with all tha’ kinda crap, tha' must mean he's good with cars too, but he doesn't make those kinda mach—” Mundy physically rounded on the kid and glared at him near homicidally. Jeremy wisened and shut up real quick. She’d be lying if she said the aggressive onslaught didn’t scare the shit out of her.

If not cars, what type of machines _does_ that guy work on?

“Uhh,” Jeremy warbled, “Actually, n-no we don’—just funnin’ ya—we don’ know anyone who’s good with, uh, with machines. Hah. Yeah.” It was painfully obvious he was backpedaling, even without the nervous simper he was throwing her way. He scratched the back of his head and nonchalantly threw a glance at Mundy. He wasn’t looking at Jeremy.

Under their expectant gazes, she felt herself squirm. Were they waiting for her to question their weird behavior? As she fidgeted, she felt how mushy the popsicles had become against her arm. _Great_. The heat was still suffocating in the market, and she wasn’t sure how the cashier—an elderly man in a _sweater_ —was still breathing at this point.

“Okay,” she mumbled. “It was—it was nice seeing you two again.” That was a lie. This was one of the worst exchanges she had ever had; her stilted “conversation” with the waitress at the bar yesterday had _nothing_ on what had just unfolded in this crummy market in only seven minutes.

Awkwardly sidestepping around the two men, she made her way to the cashier. The old man seemed to be the only one who was running the market, and she was sure she hadn’t seen him move the entire time she’d been in there. Maybe that was why the place looked so shitty. Moving might not be his thing.

She tried to ignore the footfalls she heard coming up behind her as the cashier quite thoroughly rang up her items. Christ, could this guy go _any_ fucking slower?

“[Y/n],” Mundy prompted.

Suddenly nervous to turn around, she caught and swallowed all the butterflies that were making a mad dash for her mouth.

“Ya said ya were lookin’ for a mechanic?”

... _Okay_ , she could turn around just a little, she didn’t want to be rude.

“Yeah,” she affirmed, peering up at his face. Whoa, he was… _Tall_. And—and very close. “Y’know where I can find one?” The words weren’t _intended_ to be, but they came out sounding like a challenge. “...real _good with machines_ ,” bounced around in her head. Mundy cocked a brow.

The cashier coughed, ripping her attention from the bushman in front of her.

“The town’s grease money is down yonder; four buildin’s to the left o’ this one,” the elderly man stated, his voice a little watery. His glasses took up the majority of his face, and he kept pushing them up the ridge of his nose. _Wire-framed glasses_.

Her stomach started tying itself in pretty little knots.

“Thank you,” she said, cautious to keep her uneasiness out of her voice.

The man held out a hand, expectantly. He had finished ringing up her other items but hadn’t told her the price. Surely, he didn’t expect her to fork over money when he hadn’t told her the total—?

Mundy’s large hands came _oh_ so gently around her face, and removed the aviators she’d been wearing from the sunglasses display. Oh. The Aussie handed them over to the man before he opened his mouth.

“Aye’ll be payin’ for those, John,” he told the cashier from above her head.

Heat bloomed across her face at the thought of him ~~being so close~~ paying for the aviators she'd forgotten had been on her. A sudden giddiness overtook her, causing a small smile to dimple her cheeks. She was _so_ fucking happy she wasn’t facing him right now.

Pressing a few buttons on the register, the cashier rang up the glasses in his hand and began to announce the price before Mundy slid five dollars on the counter.

“Ya can keep tha change, mate.” She felt her brows furrow as she remembered the price tag on them. They had only been 75 cents. Was he throwing his money around?

The old man smiled. “Thank ya, Mick, I appreciate it.” _Mick? Does everyone have an alternate name in this town?_

Upon seeing how happy the cashier was, she deduced Mundy was merely being kind. She was a little upset with herself for assuming the worst from him.

She turned around, a ‘ _thank you_ ' poised and ready to go on her lips, but Mundy took the aviators back from the cashier and slipped them smoothly back onto her face. It seemed every move he made was meticulously calculated. The words died in her throat.

The bushman smiled down at her and shifted his stance, the glare on his sunglasses drifting marginally to the side. She caught the glimpse of an eye for a second before he chanced a glance over his shoulder. Jeremy was busy perusing through some of the comics in the aisle near the door.

“If ya ask me,” he began, “Aye think they look _mighty_ nice on ya, shiela.” A grin.

If the sun had exploded _right now_ , burst into a giant supernova before everyone’s eyes, coating the earthen surface in fire, the boiling rays wouldn’t be able to even compete with the heat that was radiating off her face.

What a heatwave.

***

The mechanic really was just down the way. If the nature of a mechanic didn’t require a car, she could’ve simply walked there from the market.

Pulling up in front of the mechanic’s large garage door, she put her foot on the brake and popped the gear into park. The cab was boiling. No other words could explain it. Her heart sank at the thought of her car having a major problem, but there was no point in denying it. Paint didn’t just blister on its own. Something was clearly wrong.

She left her windows down and crawled out onto the sandy grass. As she moved onto the asphalt, she began to hear music.

After ducking under the metal door, she could hear the tunes more clearly. Elvis was singing soulfully from a staticky radio set on a workbench in the corner of the shop. The garage wasn’t huge like the outside had her believe, but the music ricocheted off the metallic walls all the same, just before bouncing back to her ears.

Hubcaps and road signs and tools and shit she couldn’t even _name_ were scattered haphazardly along the walls and various available surfaces, giving it an industrial feel. Oddly enough, the smell of sawdust hung in the air, though it was severely overpowered by the stench of crude oil and gasoline. The hairs inside her nose felt like they’d been burnt off.

A man in a stained denim outfit was currently jammed under a truck, oil splattered on the ground around him. He was humming along to the chorus of “Blue Moon”. Afraid to startle him, she knocked on the partially drawn garage door behind her. That… backfired. Pretty badly.

The mechanic yelped and crashed his head upward under the truck, rewarding the air with a dull thunk. She winced as he rolled himself out from under the Chevy. His face was contorted in pain and anger as he brought a rag to his forehead. Abruptly, he peered accusingly at his intruder. _New customer, actually_.

“The ‘ell do you want?” he questioned, brusquely. Taken aback by his manner, she felt a frown form.

“I’m sorry for startling you, but I need your help,” she explained. She was more than a little guarded and quite shocked by her immediate dislike for this man.

He chuffed, “Don’t you all.” _Oh, ho, so one of these, huh?_

“Listen, I just need help with my car, alright?” she said crossly. “The sooner you can tell me what’s wrong with it, the sooner I’m gone.” Wobbly standing on his short legs, the mechanic glared at the hand she offered him when she finished talking.

“Well, where is it?” he sniffed, dodging the hand. She hooked a thumb behind her at the garage door and turned around. Crouching under the door once more, she stood near the hood of her car while she watched the man pull the garage door cord. The door slid up, squeakily, and he stepped toward her; his eyes studied the car like he could see under the hood with only taking a glimpse at it. The silence was making her worry.

“It’s been running really hot recently, to the point that the air conditioning doesn’t—” He raised a greasy hand to cut her off, his eyes glued to the warped and blistered paint on the hood.

“You mean to tell me, you saw the paint bubblin’ and you didn’t think it was a problem?” She really didn’t like his attitude.

Tilting her chin up, she explained, “I didn’t see it until this morning before I came into town—”

“Typical,” he guffawed. Malice pricked against her skin as she tried to maintain calm.

“Would you let me finish what I’m trying to say?” she challenged, not waiting a beat for an answer. “Thanks. _Yes_ , the paint is bubbled. _Yes_ , I didn’t notice it right away. Can you tell me what it is that’s causing these problems?” She finished, curtly.

The mechanic swiped the rag over his balding head, effectively catching the droplets of sweat as well as smearing oil on his skin. She was sure as shit she wasn’t going to tell him that, though.

He threw her an unamused glance.

“Well, from the sounds of it, it might be a plugged heater core. Can cause the excessive heat,” he waved vaguely at the puckered paint. “Only way to fix it is to replace it. Issue is, the car is built around it—lotta work to get it out.” The man shrugged indifferently. “And I just don’t have that kind of time.”

Her stomach sank, and her face fell.

“I—I,” she stuttered, dumbfounded and disappointed over this news. “I have money; I can pay. Can you give me an estimate? A time frame of long this would take?” The mechanic crossed his arms.

“As I said, I don’t have that kind of time. I can’t help you,” he jabbed a thumb behind him at the garage, “That truck of mine in there needs fixin’, and that takes priority.” Seemingly satisfied with his excuse, he waved and turned to go back inside his shop.

“No!” she called out, her hand extended to stop him. “Please. You’re the only mechanic in this town. If you can’t fix my car… I’m stuck here.” She paused, panic sitting on her chest. “ _And I’m stuck living in a fucking motel_ ,” she mumbled to herself. “Please, _please_ help.”

His hardened face softened for a second before going neutral. The rag passed over the underbelly of his neck with a sigh as he considered it. A few agonizing seconds danced by.

“Fine,” he conceded, “But it’ll cost you. Work like this is… extensive.” Nodding, she swallowed down the word ‘ _extensive_ ’ in favor of acknowledging his cooperation.

“What’ll it set me back?”

“Two-hundred and sixty, includin’ the parts and labor. It’ll take a handful of days, too; not a quick fix.” Her stomach fucking plummeted. It felt like her heart guttered in her chest. She only had $326.87 in her sock. If she agreed to this—which she _had_ to—she’d be out of a lot of money.

God- _fucking_ -damnit.

“Okay,” her voice sounded raw, “Do you want the money upfront?”

The look the mechanic threw her told her all she needed to know.

***

The walk back into the center of town was deplorable. Her mood was dragging on the dusty rock and blades of grass below her feet, alongside her hope for the future. The sock in her bag was _considerably_ lighter, and her heart felt heavier.

Her trip would be cut real short, now. She wouldn’t have the funds to keep going. The idea made tears burn her eyes behind the aviators.

She had saved up all the money from odd jobs she had worked back in her hometown. As soon as she was twenty-four, she had packed up her bags and left. There was no use in waiting around, she had figured. Her mom had wanted her to find a nice man and settle down, but that had never been her dream. And in this day and age, young women didn’t just up and leave—didn’t _not_ get married just because they didn’t want to. Simply put, she couldn’t go home.

 _Guess running away isn’t as great as you thought it’d be, huh_? she thought bitterly.

As she neared the market again, she saw the red truck was still there. It had been nearly an hour since she had been gone. She sat down on the market’s porch and decided to ignore its existence while she wallowed. Right now, she had to figure out how to get back to the motel with a bag full of warm groceries. _The popsicles…_

With a groan, she tore into the brown paper bag to find the popsicles had melted completely in their packages, with their wooden sticks floating freely in the red liquid. Fucking _fantastic_! She dropped the bag beside her and picked one of the liquid popsicles, opening it carefully. She’d paid for these, damnit, she was going to enjoy them, one way or another.

She fished the wooden stick out and chucked it into the paper bag and began slurping the sugary liquid. It was warm but still nice. A cloud drifted aimlessly across the sky, momentarily blocking the sun’s rays. Audibly sighing, she leaned back on one hand and closed her eyes. The heat was almost bearable in the shade, she thought.

“Yo, where’s ya car?” Jeremy asked, startling her from her reverie. Consequently, raspberry popsicle juice went flying, sending the kid back with a startled ‘ _hey, watch it!_ ’ as she swiped stray beads of juice from her hands. She calmed her heart and looked down. Most of the popsicle was on the ground, now. Her mood didn’t exist anymore at this point.

Forgetting to be afraid of the kid, she leered at him.

“Can we not talk about my car?” she asked, voice inflected with supreme disappointment and irritation. She wiped her hands on her jeans again.

“Aw,” Jeremy frowned, “Tha’ bad?” Not even bothering to open her mouth, she nodded.

He plopped down on the porch to her left, moving her brown bag and denim purse closer to her to give himself more room. She felt she should be bothered by his presence, but she couldn’t find it in her to care.

“Hey,” she started.

“Yeah?”

“Why’re you and Mundy back here today? Where’re your coworkers that were in the bar?” She knew it was kind of cruel of her to purposefully grill him, but she knew out of the pair of men, he was the one more likely to spill.

Jeremy’s brows furrowed together, giving his smooth skin wrinkles. He was about to open his mouth before a voice sounded off from behind the two. It effectively scared the shit out of both of them.

“‘Cause the dingo can’t drive and he got the grocery list for the week,” Mundy explained, ignoring her second question. _Grocery list?_

“Wh-wha’? I can drive, _asshole_ ,” Jeremy sputtered, “I can drive _great_.” This elicited a snort from the older man.

“Yeah, ya can drive… drive the truck inta a _ditch_ , ya bloody menace.” The boy grumbled and crossed his arms across his chest.

She brought her left knee onto the porch, which allowed her to shift and see both of them. The bushman nodded to her with a lopsided grin. A swell of something pleasant dug in and rooted in her chest.

“Well, sheila, we can give ya a ride back to the motel, if ya want,” he offered, knowing full well there wasn’t an alternative, save for cooking herself in the sun for the buzzards if she tried to walk back herself. She shot him a quizzical look.

“How’d you know I was staying at the motel?”

Suddenly a little flustered, Mundy shoved his hands into his pockets—these pair looked even more worn than the ones he had on yesterday. “Well, where else would ya be stayin’?” She relaxed and settled back on her hands.

“I guess you’re right.”

Silence settled over the trio while they loitered on the market’s stoop. She wanted to say something—she felt this pressing need to say _something_ —but nothing came to mind. After a few minutes of staring at the heat wavering on the concrete on the horizon, she remembered...

Reaching back into the brown bag, she pulled out the three, _beyond_ melted popsicles, and held up the squirming packages.

“I-I know they’re… well, _melted_ , but, I bought them earlier and I was wondering if you guys wanted one—” Jeremy snatched one from her hand and traded her one of his larger-than-life smiles.

“Thanks! Don’ mind if I do.” She was mad at herself, as she was beginning to like the little prick. Even if he was, well, y’know. Terrifying. His _extremely_ varied moods were giving her fucking whiplash.

With a laugh, she watched him tear the plastic open with his sizeable teeth and pull the wooden stick out. She held one of the other ones up to Mundy, who watched Jeremy with an exhausted expression.

“D’you want one, Mundy?” The man in question raised his eyebrows, far above the rim of his shades, then tentatively took one from her hand.

“Thank ya, [y/n],” he said before opening it cautiously. It was nearly painful to watch.

She stood up and moved over to the tall man. He looked down at her briefly, then stuck his fingers in the bag and removed the stick. With a flick, she watched the wood fly onto the ever-growing junk pile. How the man running the shop was okay with it, she’d never know.

Mundy cleared his throat. “Aye know ya said ya didn’t want ta talk about ya car, but—”

“It’s okay,” she assured, “You can ask about it. I’m not too upset anymore.” That was a bit of a lie. She knew he knew it, too.

“Alroight, well, wot's wrong with it?”

She sighed, “The mechanic thinks it’s a… a plugged heater core.” Turning to him, she waited for a tell or a reaction, at least, to know if he knew what she was talking about. She sure as hell didn’t. “He said it—well, the car is built around the thing, and to replace it, it would take a lot of work.”

“Ya think he over-charged ya?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she laughed a little breathlessly. “There’s no way it should cost nearly three-hundred dollars to replace—” Mundy began to choke on the raspberry popsicle.

“Three-hund—” he coughed, “Three-hundred _dolla’s_? What’s this bloke _on_?” After he finished coughing, he downed the rest of the popsicle and threw the wrapper on the porch. That bothered her a smidge.

She chuckled bitterly as she watched the toe of her shoe kick the peeling paint beneath her feet.

“Yeah, well, you should’ve seen me. Nearly had to get on my hands and knees and practically _beg_ before he agreed to do the job. That asshole really didn’t want to help me,” she admitted, looking at the last vestiges of her popsicle. Her eyes flicked to Mundy but were met with an inscrutable expression. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but his reaction—or lack of—left her a little disappointed.

“Wait,” Jeremy butt in, “So, how long ‘til ya have a car?”

She shrugged. “He said anywhere from a few days to a week.” Keenly, she left out the part where the man outright refused her plea to call the motel when her car was ready to go. She’d have to call him, and she had a feeling he wouldn’t be too pleased with her calling every day. _Tough shit, asshole_.

Jeremy smiled cutely. “Tha’ sucks, big time, but tha’ also means we can drive ya around!” The boy stood up, excited. “It’d be cool ta spend more time with ya,” he put a hand up to his mouth in secrecy whilst pointing casually at Mundy, “An’ I know fa _sure_ Mista Mundy over here would love ta see ya more.” A wink.

The glower Mundy threw the boy’s way was the apotheosis of all the purely homicidal emotions she’d seen that day. His body went rigid against the market’s siding he was leaning on, and it truly, absolutely scared the fuck out of her. That was the second time today she’d seen him like that. Something heavy sat uncomfortably in her stomach.

Jeremy shot her the cheekiest grin he could muster, accompanied with an eyebrow waggle— _bastard_ —when he saw the bushman’s reaction. For the life of her, she couldn’t see how the two were friends.

Hating the tension, she interjected: “Hey, uh, Mundy?” Cautiously, she rested a hand on the man’s upper arm—she didn’t particularly like the rigidity of the Aussie. Right then, he scared her a little more than she’d like to admit, and she prayed to God that he wouldn’t round on her for touching him.

He met her eyes and his expression became significantly less harsh. The taut muscle under her hand slowly relaxed, and he looked like he was back to normal.

“...Yeah?” Mundy rumbled. God, her face was so hellishly warm— _definitely_ the heat. Letting go of his arm she noted—a mite flustered and fearful—the slickness of her hand as it fell back to her side. She cast an eye back to the old truck parked about ten feet away then back up the aviators that matched the pair on her face. Just now, she saw the beastly vehicle's side said “ _RED_ ”. Given its color, she thought it ironic.

“Can I, uh, take you up on that offer now? I’d like to get back to the motel.” She motioned to her bag of groceries sitting on the porch ledge. “I didn’t buy anything that could soil in the heat, but I, um, I want to put it away.” A partial truth. She _did_ want to put the multiple bags of chips, three boxes of crackers, soaps, toilet paper, and bottles of water in the motel’s cabinets and mini-fridge, respectively. Man, the next week’s menu would be the worst she’d had in a while.

Seeing her ploy to change the topic, Mundy nodded once and made quick work of getting to the truck.

Jeremy waved a taped hand in the air, seemingly dismissing everything that had just happened. In hindsight, not much _did_ happen. Why did she feel so wrung out, then?

“Eh, don’ worry ‘bout it, [y/n]. Tha old fart doesn’ know how ta deal with someone pickin’ on him,” he clarified. The boy bent down and scooped up her groceries, then handed her the denim bag. She took it, stony-faced.

She felt weird. Jeremy didn’t scare her much anymore, not with Mundy around. Plus, to be fair, the Boston boy hadn’t ever looked at her in an “I’m going to murder you” type way. But now, she knew the man, the one she sort of trusted with her safety, was capable of wearing such a brutal face. And, worst of all, she had a sneaking suspicion that that wasn’t the full brunt of his anger.

She didn’t want to know that side of him. No, not at all.

***

The diesel engine grumbled loudly all the way back to the motel. She could feel the power of the machine under her seat, and it caused her legs to feel like they were vibrating. They most likely were.

Surprisingly, the old truck had air conditioning. It was cold, too, to her delight. The rig set up above the dashboard was… odd. She’d never seen anything quite like it. After staring at it for several minutes, she still couldn’t make sense of how it worked. Work of the engineer friend they didn’t want her to know about, perhaps?

With an arm hanging against the closed window, Mundy lazily laid his hand on the bottom of the wheel. Jealously, she saw he could steer with his knee. Truly, having short legs did not pay.

To her right, Jeremy still held her groceries in one arm, whilst tapping a finger against his thigh to the beat warbling from the radio.

A pothole near the entrance of the motel sucked in a tire, causing the entire truck to dip. Her ass lifted from the seat momentarily before gravity remembered its duty and rushed to bring her right back down again. The truck steadied out again, but Jeremy was smooshed up against her side— _great_ —and Mundy’s thigh brushed against her knee.

Blushing through her hairline, she shoved the kid back into his respective spot on the bench-like seat and moved closer to him in an effort not to glance the bushman again with her knee.

Mundy smoothly rolled his large hand over the wheel, and she felt her body sway marginally with the truck as it moved. As they slid into a parking spot, she chanced a small peek up to her left at him. Quickly—so quick she thought she imagined it—his head turned away from hers to the window. Huh.

“Alrigh’!” Jeremy exalted, jumped from his seat, and enthusiastically popped open the door. Not unlike a hand, the heat wormed its way inside the small cab and grabbed at them in a mocking manner. _"Thought you could evade me?"_

With a groan, she lowered herself out of the truck and onto the steaming asphalt. Jeremy, still holding her groceries, rocked onto the balls of his feet as he waited for everyone to get out. He had way too much energy. The heat, if anything, made her more sluggish. How did he manage to still be giddy with that star up there cooking everything so _ruthlessly_?

The Aussie cut the engine behind her, and she heard the tell-tale slam of the driver’s side door being shut. She wrung the denim strap of her bag in her hands as she turned to look at her room’s door. The brushed, worn metal of the plaque on the door glinted in the daylight, momentarily blinding her in one eye, despite her sunglasses.

“‘Ey, [y/n],” Mundy called behind her. She did an about-face and saw he was standing near the bed of the truck. Waving her over, he reached over the wooden slats that boarded the tailgate and snapped something open—it looked like a cooler.

She made her way over and watched as he pulled four deli sandwiches from the confines of the red-colored bin.

“Ya said earlier ya didn’t get anythin’ that needed ta be cold. Assumed ya just got junk.” She nearly laughed at his perfect assumption, before he held the sandwiches in one hand. “Aye can take ya real food shoppin’ tomorra, if ya want. Seein’ as ya won’t have a car an’ all.”

Suddenly, the sandwiches were now in both of her hands, and his own were stuffed deep in his pockets. “Take those, ya need ‘em more than we do. We'll snag lunch back at... work.”

Her mouth opened, cotton clogging her vocal cords. This was... unexpected. She cleared her throat and the cotton disappeared.

“Uh,” she started, “Thank you, Mundy. That—it— _well_ , that means a lot.” She turned her tinted gaze over to Jeremy and back to the face way above her. “Thank you guys, you’ve been _unbelievably_ generous.” A dry laugh. She scratched the nape of her neck after stashing the cold sandwiches in her bag. “I’d be… well, I’d be fucked if you guys weren’t here today. I _really_ appreciate it.”

Mouth more than a little dry, she remembered the air conditioning unit she’d left on in her room. God, that sounded so _good_ right now. 

“Aw, don’ mention it, girlie. It was tons o’ fun hangin’ today,” Jeremy flashed her a beaming smile. She rolled her eyes at the nickname. The boy laughed, swiped the sweat collecting on his brow, and handed her the brown bag in his arms. With a wave, he climbed back into the truck. “See ya!”

Returning the gesture, she grinned goofily and directed her attention back to Mundy. He smiled back; it made her more than a little giddy.

“No need ta mention it, sheila,” Mundy said offhandedly, a small smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth, “Happy ta help.”

The sun was a little lower in the sky—a little after four, by her guess. It was hanging right behind his hatted head—that evil, gorgeous, tyrannical, burning star. A golden glow outlined his form, with the yellow light shining beautifully off the sides of his shades. Oddly, the want to paint the moment, the need to keep it encased in oil paints forever, struck her suddenly. Maybe another time.

Mundy’s expression was soft, softer than she knew how to handle, and it hurt, strangely. Was it supposed to—

A loud beep shredded the moment and danced on its grave. Oh, _look_ , her heart was tap-dancing out of her chest and onto the pavement.

Two more beeps followed the first. Mundy’s gaze whipped to a spot over her shoulder, to the—oh, it was the fucking _truck_.

“Ay _YO_ , le’s _GO_!” the kid yelled, his body half-hanging out from the driver’s side window with a taped hand on the wheel. “This is touchin’ ta watch, really, but _turtles_ move fasta than the two of ya, _c’mon_.” To her surprise, Jeremy wasn’t sporting a shit-eating grin. He looked irritated.

Feeling like she was caught with her pants down, her face began to burn in embarrassment. She gave the bushman an awkward smile and a quick “ _good-bye_ ”, then made for her door. The feeling that she was forgetting something nagged incessantly in the back of her head as she stabbed the key into the lock. She overheard Mundy walk over to the truck.

He hissed to the Boston boy, “ _Whot the fuck is wrong with ya_?” as he pushed him off his door.

Finally, the piece of shit lock clicked and allowed her entry into the musty, but _cool_ room. Closing the door, she rested her back against it and dropped her keys into her bag. _What_ was she forgetting? _The sandwiches_. Yes! Well, _no_ , but yeah.

She pulled the bag off her arm and then made her way to the fridge. After putting the brown bag on the counter, she plopped the purse on top of the blue ice-box and fished for the sandwiches. All of them were wrapped in white deli paper—the strong stuff—and at first glance, all of them were the same.

The sound of the truck pulling out and heading for the highway took her attention. _What was she forgetting??_

As she set them on the fridge’s first shelf, it hit her: she forgot to ask for the time when Mundy would pick her up tomorrow. _How_ could she forget that? The memory of the horn startling her crested over her minds-eye, and she instantly put the blame on Jeremy. How would she get real food now? The sandwiches were great, and an _amazing_ surprise, but they wouldn’t last her a week.

With a grumble, she yanked a sandwich from the fridge and rummaged the brown bag for chips. Finding some of the potato variety, she sat on the countertop and began to unwrap the sandwich. She began to tear into it—holy fucking _shit_ was she hungry, she may have two of these—something black on the wrapping caught her eye. Unwrinkling it on her knee, she turned it back over and saw a number.

Mundy’s number. There, on the wrapping, plain as day. It was written in chicken scratch, sure, but God, it was Mundy’s and she felt like she might faint. _Wow_ , it was just cold in here, why was it now so hot?

She jumped excitedly from the counter and began to scarf the chips and sandwich down in earnest, then grabbed another one from the fridge.

Okay, _okay_ , this wasn’t a big deal, he just gave her his number so he could take her shopping tomorrow. Nothing else. But what _if_? The butterflies she swallowed earlier came back up as she stared imploringly at the scrawl written in magic marker.

She paced for fifteen minutes.

...Was it _too_ soon to call him? She jaunted over to the landline by her bed, wrapper in hand, and hovered a thumb over the buttons. What if he wasn’t home yet? Should she leave a message on his answering machine, then? Was that too pushy? Oh, _God_ , what if someone else picked up the phone? Questions and “ _what if_?”’s flitted around her mind as the dial tone buzzed.

She could do this. Yeah, _yeah_ , she could _totally_ do this. All she was doing was asking for a time that he would be free tomorrow. Only that. It was simple!

Taking a deep breath, she dialed the number and stared at the buttons. Her hands were so sweaty, the phone nearly fell onto the floor when she hit ‘ _call_ ’, and she could barely hear the ringing on the other end over her own staccato heartbeat.

He picked up on the third thing. She couldn’t stop smiling for hours.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to contact me on either of my tumblrs!  
> •my new tf2 [blog](https://mundeee.tumblr.com/)  
> •my main [blog](https://thewhirlybird.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grocery ~~date~~ trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!!
> 
> it's,,,, really hot here, ngl. it's been in the high 90s all week and i feel like i'm gonna go mad. ~~plus i don't have central air so yay meeee~~
> 
> i don't have much else to say, other than this chapter was a mite more angsty than i'd originally planned? I'm working thru my own shit, like everyone, and i feel like it's coming through my writing.
> 
> also, there's quite a few jumps in this chapter. I only did that so I could keep the interesting things in/things that contribute to the character development and/or plot. sorry if anything is confusing!!
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy!! ilygsm <333

The woman at the front desk was a lonely soul. Undoubtedly. She dwelled over that as the minutes ticked by, and felt a twinge of vague sadness for the lady.

It had all started with her trying to break the ice; she’d simply asked the older woman what her opinion was on the main character of the book she’d had her nose stuffed in. The romance novel had, surprisingly, changed from the one she’d seen the day she claimed the last vacancy in the motel. This book was also one she had read before. 

For just a moment, confusion had glinted over the lady’s face, before both bewilderment and recognition took its place; the woman must’ve been shell-shocked that _anyone_ would ask her such a question. 

After that initial moment of silence, however, the lady wouldn’t stop talking. For a handful of hours now, she’d been sitting on the front desk next to the older lady, the two of them clucking like a couple of hens about the book’s character development. More than a little astonished that she had found one is such a place, she concluded that she _finally_ had a girlfriend to gab with. 

The air encasing the two women was dense and syrupy in the cramped, tobacco-stained office. Even the blades that extended from the ceiling fan did next to nothing as they knifed sluggishly through the air. She hadn’t realized she’d been in the office that long—usually the heat made itself more annoyingly apparent to the point she couldn’t sit still—so, when she snuck a passing glance at the clock hanging above the office door, her nerves barbed under her skin and her pulse skyrocketed. It was nearly six!

The lady gave her a knowing look—she really was going quite fond of this stranger—and patted a sun-kissed hand on the young woman's forearm. 

_Mundy would be there soon._

Her call with the bushman the previous day had lasted... well, _much_ longer than she’d thought it would. At first, he’d been stoic, maybe even a little _frigid_ over the crunchy static that danced through the receiver. 

For a few minutes while they’d stiffly discussed the specifics of when he’d pick her up tomorrow— _today_ —she’d entertained the idea that he was merely staying in contact due to pity. _Did he really want to talk to me?_ Well enough, she remembered the distinct pang of the consequent despair. 

However, that all changed with one sentence. 

Before she had the chance to awkwardly hang up and berate herself for being a fool _once again_ , he’d said something that made her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip to keep the smile from cracking her face in two.

“ _Aye’m excited ta see ya tomorra, [y/n]_.” 

Until she had fitfully fallen asleep hours later, she ruminated over their exchange, feeling heat pool in her ears and face _countless_ times as she recalled with crystalline clarity how gravelly his voice had been. 

Despite her entire being screaming at her to keep it to herself, she had found herself giddily and quite _breathlessly_ regaling it all to the older woman—only leaving the part about the shitty phone out. 

The woman had seemed to share her own elation, maybe even a little _more_ so, and offered to help paint her toes, too. She’d declined, of course, but the idea that the older lady thought she’d need her toes painted left her pondering. 

And, that was where she found herself, currently. Her nails had been dry for about a half-hour now, and her resolve had begun crumbling the hour before that; she’d never been more nervous. Fuck the bar, this was tripping nerve endings all _over_ her body. 

Would he bring the kid? Did she want him to? Did the idea of being alone with the man scare her? No, no, she didn’t feel fear. If anything, she felt light-headed. 

“You’re gonna do great, sweetie,” the lady cooed as she continued to pat her. “Tell me _every_ gory detail when ya get back, though.” 

This woman was toeing the line over an uncanny valley—one minute, she was like a mom, then the next, a gabby, _nosy_ friend. 

She laughed, more than a mite apprehensive. 

“Please, we’re only going _grocery shopping_. I hardly think that requires a detailed rehashing.” 

Both of them knew she was downplaying—of fucking _course_ she’d be giving her a play-by-play later—but neither one said anything about it. Yes, _technically_ it was only grocery shopping. It wasn’t a date, no matter how many times her brain tried to paint it so. So, why did it leave her stomach in jittery knots when she thought about it, then?

A honk pierced the air and hung there before she had a chance to answer. 

The older woman’s hands grasped her own, eyes, and mouth open in sudden fervor. 

She stage whispered to the younger woman, “ _I think that’s your ride, honey_.” 

Retracting her hands, she nodded eagerly and chewed on her lower lip to fight that stupid smile again. She hopped down off the edge of the desk, slung her bag onto her shoulder, and turned around once she neared the doorway. The woman had the book clasped back in one hand, and was puffing her chest up and out, coaching a display of confidence—she got the message and mimicked it, though it didn’t make her feel any stronger. 

“ _Every_ gory detail, y’hear?” Her friend narrowed her beady, sharp eyes, then flapped her hand like she was shooing a fly. “Go on, now, darlin’. Don’t leave the man waiting.” 

She exalted a breathless laugh, raised a hand good-bye, and swiveled around. The door hissed as she opened it, and the suffocating air from the office was replaced by even denser, stale air. 

_The truck has air conditioning_ , she kept reminding herself. How it did, she didn’t quite know. It was a downright miracle that a truck as old as their’s could even function anymore, let alone have a proper cooling unit. _Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth_ , her mother always used to say...

...The truck wasn’t in the lot. Her eyes swept the large asphalt slab tucked into the ‘L’ shape of the motel, and came up empty again. No red truck, no kid… _no Mundy_. Disappointment caused her face to sink, and her chest deflated like a balloon. So much for the confidence she’d been feigning—

Another honk punched through the silence, this time accompanied by two flashes of pale, white lights—headlights. She brought an arm up to her eyes—apparently, the sunglasses could only tolerate so _much_ —and peered at the offending vehicle. Two spaces away from where her car used to loiter sat an ecru-colored van. 

In the days of her stay, she’d seen nearly _every_ vehicle come and go on the highway, as well as the bypass that intersected it on its way toward the motel’s entrance. Needless to say, not many people came into the Badlands. And not even once did she catch a camper entering or leaving Teufort. 

Maybe they were looking for a vacancy? _Too bad_ , she’d snapped up the last one. But that didn’t explain why they were honking at _her_.

Feeling marginally uneasy, she hooked a foot behind her and spun back around. The office door was only a few feet away, she could simply just head back inside and wait for him to—

“‘Ey, [y/n]!” a voice yelled out from behind her. Immediately, she put a face to the voice. 

She turned to view the vehicle. A comically large grin took over her face when she saw Mundy leaning out of the van’s driver’s side window, brandishing a hand in greeting. 

She cupped a hand around her mouth and hollered back, “I wasn’t aware you had a van!” 

Making her way over, the Aussie slid back in the camper and glided over the seats to pop open the passenger door. Once she reached the door, she placed a foot on the step below it and tried to clamber up. 

“Yeah, aye’ve ‘ad ‘er fa a few yeas, now,” the bushman explained as he offered her a hand. Heat licked at the suddenly too-tight skin of her neck. 

She ceased clawing at the seat for purchase in favor of depositing her hand into his for the second time in her life, and then promptly screeched when he tugged her in. Her nose nearly smashed into the middle console.

“Sorry,” he winced and helped right her, “Ya lighta than aye expected, sheila.” 

The flush conquered her entire face. 

As she let go of his abnormally large paw, she composed herself on the seat, setting her denim bag at her feet. 

“Where’s the truck?” she queried and looked around.

The interior of the van was orderly, bereft of any sort of wrappers or junk. She wasn’t sure why she expected otherwise, he appeared to be a clean man.

Wedged between the console and the passenger seat was a thick stack of magazines; they all seemed to be of the wildlife variety at first glance. A few hunting editions, and, intriguingly, an extremely small, leatherback collection of poems. A smile tugged playfully at the corners of her mouth, and she gave him an amused look. She put _that_ little insight into his reading taste in the back of her mind.

Mundy cleared his throat—he appeared to be a little embarrassed, and that was truly adorable—and shuffled in his seat, adjusting his long legs that rested on either side of the wheel. 

“Uh, one o’ tha men aye work with needed it.” He scratched at the shadowed stubble growing along his jaw. “They wanted ta go back ta tha bar.” _Ah_.

“Did—" she started, “— _do_ you want to go?” She felt a smidge guilty for taking him away from his friends, coworkers, _whatever_ they actually _were_ to him, just for something as mundane as food shopping. 

Mundy’s head hastily swiveled back to hers, eyebrows raised high above the rim of his shades.

“No,” he jumped to explain. “Aye—uh, aye wan’ ta ‘ _hang_ ’ with ya, or whateva tha’ bloody mongrel calls it.” The Aussie rolled his eyes—she was getting better at finding his eyes behind the sunglasses, she found—and she thought it quite amusing. Once again, the relationship there between those two was inexplicable to her; but they _were_ friends, and that was as good enough explanation as any in her book. 

...But the idea that he _wanted_ to spend time with her left her feeling fuzzy. 

She sighed, “Alright, well, where _do_ you guys go real food shopping?”

Considering she hadn’t gone further than the town in her car when she had it—she had to call the mechanic first thing tomorrow, she had to remember—she figured it was safe to assume that any type of actual grocery _store_ was down the stretch of highway heading out the opposite way she came in. 

The idea of a good, ~~home~~ _motel_ -cooked meal that she could make with her own hands and ingredients sounded incredible to her. For lunch and dinner, she’d scarfed down the remaining two sandwiches, and another bag of chips. She really was eating like a _queen_. 

“Tha biggest supermarket is jus’ outside tha exit,” he pointed to the right-most horizon outside her window. 

She nodded along, then reached down to rummage through her bag. Feeling the cool, silver metal glance her fingers, she snatched them and fell back into the seat, sliding her new shades onto the bridge of her nose. She gifted him a shit-eating grin that Jeremy would be proud of, then returned her tinted vision to the front window.

“Let’s boogie,” she said, feeling _exceptionally_ cool when she propped her feet up on the dash. The Aussie didn’t appreciate that. With a scoff, he pushed them off before swiping a caring hand over the “offended” board. She had to fight the chortle that twirled up her throat.

“Seatbelt,” he reminded. _Nope_. What did he think, that he was her dad— “ _ **Seatbelt**_.” 

Ice settled in her veins at the command, while something else a little warmer coiled in her stomach. Choking _that_ down, she crossly voiced her disdain for the idea, then buckled up. 

Mundy then gave _her_ a shit-eating grin, his pronounced canines glinting in the diffused light of the cabin. 

_Cheeky asshole_.

***

They were three miles from the exit. Half-way into the drive, Mundy had turned the radio on to eat up the silence, but it was still hushed enough for chit-chat. She wanted to say something, quite literally _anything_ , but she found it hard to do so. Tapping her fingers rapidly against her thigh, she tried to recall her scales from the time she’d tried piano.

“Didja do tha’ today?” the bushman asked. Momentarily stunned by the unprompted question, she directed her gaze to him, brows knitted. _Do what today_? “Tha nails.” He tipped his hat toward her hands, miraculously managing to keep his shaded eyes on the wide expanse of road at the same time. 

She eyed her nails under her frames like the ladies do in the movies, and tried not to remain too stupified by his observation skills _once again_.

“Uh, yeah. The um… the woman at the motel’s office had some sitting around,” she said, voice inflected like it was a question. She turned her attention back to the ribbon of asphalt. “I went to her this afternoon to—” _Gossip? Gab? What’re ya gonna tell him? You can’t lie, he’ll see right through it_ , “—talk.” She saw him nod out of her peripheral. “Do… you like the color?” 

Mundy’s eyes stayed glued to the road. His demeanor was outwardly calm. She didn’t think he was being rude by not looking at her, but she wondered why he always took a minute to respond to her questions. Maybe he was considering the best response? That seemed plausible—

“They’re blue,” he stated, face emboldened in amusement she didn’t quite understand. She laughed a little, not expecting the simple response. 

“Yeah, they’re blue. Navy.”

The Aussie’s sudden smile ran away with the lower half of his face—his teeth were _extremely_ white, holy shit—

“Neva been a huge fan o' tha color myself, but,” he turned his gaze to her. “Aye think aye can make an exception fa ya, sheila. Looks mighty nice.” 

Her body must have heated the first few inches of air surrounding her. It was stupid, really, to get worked up over something so _small_ , but there she was: a blushing _fool_.

“Thank you.” 

She nervously raked her nails up and down her thighs as she sat up and inhaled a bucket of air. Not even a half-hour into their evening—did she dare consider it ‘ _their evening_ ’?—and she was already coming apart at the seams. 

_Get your shit together, girlie_. The exit was in less than a mile.

***

The grocery store was nearly empty, to her surprise. It was a _Saturday_ —normally, stores were flooded with families skittering to and fro, trying to get last minute items before Sunday mass that were usually for the customary dinner. It was strange to her that that didn't seem to be the case here. She'd never been big with tradition, though, so she didn't think too hard on it.

As Mundy pulled into one of the many empty parking spots scattered toward the front, she noted only four other cars in the lot and a very frantic looking woman.

She watched, engrossed, as the woman pitifully crammed multiple brown bags into the trunk of her Chrysler. The lady quickly jaunted to the backseat and yanked the door open, _completely_ oblivious to her son standing next to her legs. Feeling the boy’s pain—she’d always been a bit of an empath—she winced and sucked a bit of air through her teeth. She shook her head as she watched the poor kid fall onto the hard pavement. 

Killing the ignition, Mundy turned and followed her gaze. He mimicked her, shaking his own hatted head. 

“Lil’ dingo’s gonna have a black eye,” the bushman muttered, his tone slightly apathetic. _Interesting_. 

“You not big on kids?” she queried. Personally, she didn’t feel any which way about them, but judging from his reaction, she wondered if he felt differently. 

He shrugged, “Eh, aye don’ really care fa ‘em, bu’ aye don’ wanna seem ‘em get hurt.” Mundy flicked the brim of his hat toward the mother who was currently jerking the crying boy into the car’s backseat. “ _Tha’s_ wha’ aye’m no' big on.”

She nodded in agreeance. Normally, she didn’t judge people so quickly—it wasn’t fair to crucify someone for one thoughtless action. However, _twice_ now she’d seen this woman be boorish and less than sympathetic to her own child. 

The once cold air began to sour and turn warm the longer they sat there in the cabin, listening to the engine spit as it cooled down.

After shutting her son’s door, the woman climbed into the driver’s seat and sped away.

“Have you ever had a black eye?” she wondered. 

The barking laugh she received as a response scared the shit out of her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Seeing her reaction, he tried to apologize in between bouts of laughter.

“Have aye—bloody hell, _hold on_ ,” he wheezed and she chuckled nervously at his odd reaction. “Neva took ya fa a comedian, [y/n].” Mundy grabbed the wheel as another wave of laughter snatched and ran away with his lungs. 

She frowned. She wasn’t _trying_ to be funny, and she told him so. 

“Aye— _fuck_ —aye know, sheila, aye’m sorry. No' laughin’ _at_ ya, aye promise,” he chortled. 

“Oh, let me guess,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re laughing _with_ me; that it?” 

He continued to laugh.

 _Alright_ , she’d had enough. She grabbed her bag and reached for the door’s handle. Snapping it open, she felt him stretch over her legs to close it again. An agitated, metallic taste filled her mouth. 

“ _I’m_ going shopping,” she said curtly, fiddling with her bag’s strap. “ _You_ can stay here and laugh at nothing, like a fuckin’ maniac. See ya in a bit." 

Glaring daggers at him, she tried to smack his hand off the door, which didn’t relent. After a few seconds, the laughter died down, and he moved back into his seat. She waited.

He swallowed, “No, no, aye’ll go in with ya. Aye’m good, now.” 

With a huff, she pushed the door open, rolled, and found her feet on the pavement. Closing it with a bit more force than she meant to, she began to skitter away. The sound of another door opening then closing, closely followed by a flurry of fast footfalls didn’t deter her. 

“ _Oi_ , c’mon, now,” he cooed from over her shoulder. The bushman shook his head, which did nothing to dislodge the lopsided grin stapled to his face. “If only ya knew how _good_ tha’ joke was.”

***

Unbeknownst to her, she’d grabbed the worst fucking cart in the entire store. _Yippee_. Passing through the produce aisle, the cart’s left, front-most wheel wiggled and screamed under the weight, threatening to dart off completely.

She glanced around the store and saw only one older man who was staring harshly at her cart. _Embarrassing_. 

Mundy caught the look and peered toward the troublesome wheel. He moved to the front of the cart. After bracing his hands on the metal frame that made up the basket, he reared his foot back and kicked the side of the wheel. _Surely_ that wouldn’t solve anything...

It didn’t squeak. Her eyebrows shot up as she moved the cart back and forth with no protest. The Aussie smiled as he moved back behind her. She didn’t smile back. _You’re being petty_ , a voice whispered in the back of her head. Her pride squashed it down.

At first, she’d considered his position to her odd—why didn’t he want to walk beside her? Maybe he liked being a human watchtower back there; all-seeing up in the clouds that his hat certainly _must_ brush—

All of the blood drained from her body. She white-knuckled the bar connected to the cart as she felt the sandwich she had for dinner threaten to come back up the way it went down.

She was afraid.

The face on the far of the aisle had yet to recognize her, but she recognized him immediately. His wire-frame glasses sat thickly upon the bridge of his nose, and if _possible_ , his hair looked even greasier than the last time she’d seen it glistening under the lights and neons pulsing in the bar. 

Oh, _God_ , she felt like she was going to be sick all over the linoleum—

A steady, massive hand rested on her shoulder, it's companion following suit quickly after. _Safe_. Two thumbs pressed in the shallow pits just above where her shoulder blades started, and she suppressed the need to shudder.

The rat looked up briefly to search for something on the next shelf over, then caught her eye. His face appeared blank and emotionless before it morphed into recognition as he remembered who she was. 

Her breath got clogged on the fear and bile in her throat, and without thinking, she reached behind and grabbed a fistful of Mundy’s red shirt. The light fabric crunched and wrinkled in her grasp, its cool feel grounding her. The hold on her shoulders turned iron-like. ~~_Don’t let go of me, please_~~.

The slime-ball got closer to her cart before he stopped short. His mouth was about to open when his gaze flicked up to Mundy’s face that hovered way above her own. At first, he looked mildly irritated by the bushman’s presence, but after a few seconds, that changed. Even from a handful of feet away, she could see his skin blanch. 

Sir Rat dared another fervent peek at her face, and she grabbed onto the Aussie’s shirt again with her other hand. She felt bad about the creases she most likely was giving him. 

“Betta scurry ‘way now, ya slimy _fuck_ ,” Mundy growled—actually fucking _growled_ at the man. She felt his torso slot in between her shoulder blades, and she _swore_ she could feel him still growling, low in his chest like an animal. It felt predatory, basic, hell, even _primal_ , and she was _so_ fucking glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of it.

The man recoiled, tucked tail, and sprinted from the aisle, abandoning his cart completely. Her breath escaped her in choppy waves after holding it so long. 

The frame pressed against her back and the hands on her shoulders disappeared, and she quashed the completely irrational disappointment she started to feel bubbling up.

Her hands were still clutching onto his shirt, and she wasn’t quite sure she could let go. 

The bushman returned his hands to her shoulders and tried to spin her to face him, but she was glued to the floor. Mundy deliberately trailed his fingers from her shoulders to her hands, and then tried to gently peel her digits away from the fabric. 

“Didn’ think ya were a _koala_ ,” he chuffed, guttural against her back. Her fingers finally let go, and he held onto them while she got her bearings straight. It was oddly normal to her, like she’d been holding his hands for ages, not just for the first time. “Ya okay, [y/n]?” Mundy asked with a voice laced heavily in concern. She had to bite back the urge to yank her hands away and bury her scorching face in them; she wanted to hide. 

“Yeah,” she replied after a moment. Her throat felt raw. She felt him lightly squeeze, then drop her hands as he backed up. The bushman’s heat was gone, and she felt… cold? That couldn’t be right. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She turned her head around behind her and threw him a wavering smile. “I-I can’t begin to thank you, Mundy. You’ve been…” she sighed and grabbed ahold of the cart’s handle. “Way too much of a help.” 

_That’s the_ truth. _I used to be able to handle myself—_

“Ya aren’ weak, [y/n],” Mundy said from behind her. There, _again_ , that fucking perception that stripped her bare. 

She gave the now abandoned cart in the middle of the aisle a wide berth, then stopped to grab a few canned items from a shelf. She unceremoniously tossed them into the cart’s basket. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mundy, but… I don’t need you,” she stated. “The whole point of my trip was to, I don’t know… _declare_ my own independence, in a way. But, now, some asshole with a dick smaller than my index finger has scared me stiff twice, and _both_ times, I’ve been a damsel in distress.” She threw a loaf of bread into the cart, angrily. The irritation from earlier was starting to morph into something larger, something _uglier_. 

Mundy cut in, voice barbed, “Bein’ afraid is no’ weak. Knowin’ ya afraid is _brave_. It also makes ya smart.” A sigh. “It makes ya even _smarta_ if ya know ya need help. Ya aren’ weak.” 

She swiveled around, hand loosely gripping the cart. Her brows pinched, and her expression was a testament to acrimony. _So mad you just want to spit..._

“That’s just what people say to others to make them _feel_ better,” she hissed, “Don’t pity me, I don’t want it.” 

As she went to turn, his hand snaked around her forearm, effectively halting her movement. The Aussie’s thumb and index finger wrapped effortlessly around the thickest part of her arm. It wasn’t all his strength, no. More like a tease, she was sure. He’d let go if she started to struggle.

He forced a sigh through his nostrils, then pressed his lips in a thin line. 

“Pity does nothin’ fa anyone; an’ trust me, sheila, aye’ve got _no_ business pityin’ ya.” 

“And what does that mean?” She took off her aviators to look at him fully, untouched by a filter. He didn’t do the same.

A pregnant pause fell over them, and neither one backed down; it equal parts agitated _and_ delighted her. He seemed to be considering his words, and she waited for him to say something.

“Don’ ge’ pissed at _me_ ‘cause ya upset with yaself. I mean’ _exactly_ wha’ I said, and ya know it.” Her mouth clicked open, outrage sparking on her tongue, as she prepared a retort. “ _Don’ look fa somethin’ tha’ ain’t there, luv_.” 

The nickname snapped her spine in half with a flick of two fingers. She’d never recover.

Her head was _spinning_ , and she felt like she’d been slapped. The bushman dropped her arm by her side and stood up straight—she hadn’t been aware that’d they’d nearly been the same height the entire time. Embarrassment gnawed at her bones, and she ducked her eyes. 

Mundy had her number, and she felt like a bug under a microscope.

***

The total had come to a grand total of $10.18. All in all, not too horrendous, as she now had enough food to live a week _comfortably_ , at least. But if she kept chipping away at the amount tucked in her sock…

Those were things she’d have to seriously think about soon. The word ‘ _job_ ’ bounced around in her head like an irksome rubber ball, and hampered her already shitty mood. A job meant stability, stability meant static, and that meant no more moving around. If she was completely honest, that scared her.

She’d been on this little hamster wheel more times than she wanted to acknowledge, but more often than not, she found herself readily getting back on it rather than running away.

Currently, they were sitting on the two bench-chairs that were bolted to the wall of his van. Her elbows rested on the table— _also_ bolted to the wall—as she stared at a fixed point on the ceiling. They had loaded the groceries into his fridge—which was _not_ bolted to the wall, so she wondered how it stayed put—and he made them two grilled cheese sandwiches in his kitchenette. 

Initially, she’d been shocked by how neat the van looked. Everything was in its place, either tucked away or strapped down. For some reason, she found the placement of the bed comical; it was stashed over the cab of the camper on the front, and for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine him clambering his way into such a cramped space; he was not a small man by any stretch. 

A clock announced every second that vanished as they sat there, and she could feel herself growing insane in the ticking silence. Mundy didn’t seem to mind. 

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick…_

Fine.

“I’m sorry for being childish earlier,” she apologized, careful to keep her gaze away from him. The silence swallowed her words. Apologies like these were never easy—she hated being so entirely _wrong_. “You were right,” a sigh, “I was taking it out on you because I was upset with myself. And with… with _him_. I shouldn’t have done that.” Embarrassment swirled in her belly as she waited for his response. 

A minute passed. Then, two. 

“Aye forgive ya,” Mundy started, then paused. “Ya have a hard time acknowledgin’ ya faults, don’tcha?” That sour-tasting shame seared her tastebuds. She nodded. “Aye have tha same problem. My… line o’ work isn’ real forgivin’ o’ mistakes. Aye also have my own standards aye need ta reach.” 

That was the most willingly-gven information she’d gotten out of him since the first time they’d met. The sudden realization that _that_ was only a few days ago made her exhausted in a strange way. 

She tried to keep the curiosity out of her face—hearing _anything_ about his job was rare, and she wanted to hear more. Another time, maybe. _Don’t push it._

“You can’t be perfect all the time, you know.” _Preaching to the choir, sister_. “I-I, know that sounds hypocritical, coming from me of all people, but it’s still true.” Reluctantly, she brought her eyes to lock onto his through his glasses. “It may not matter, considering I’m not staying here for long—” something dull twisted in her chest, “—but I _promise_ , I’ll try to work on asking for help. I can't do it all on my own, and that's... that's not an inherently bad thing.”

At that, Mundy slipped back into that inscrutable persona, and she’d been effectively locked out. It might’ve been unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but she’d been watching him, recognizing his body language for a few days now, and she could tell when he slunk back into his shell. 

“When are ya leavin’?”

She shrugged.

“I haven’t heard from the mechanic—I still have to call him either when I get back or tomorrow—but I assume the window is the same; about a week.” Mundy didn’t move or make any other sign to signify his acknowledgment.

Silence coated them in a thick film, and she felt kind of upset. They both knew she couldn’t stay forever, but the idea of never seeing him again? She couldn’t understand why that hurt. 

Several minutes trekked by, and she was about to suggest that they get going before he piped up. 

“D’ya like stars?” 

Her mind reeled for a moment, confused by the odd question. 

“Um, yeah. _Yeah_ , I do.” 

His head flicked toward the window and nodded once. 

“Nearly eight-thirty, by the looks o’ it,” he regarded. The bushman slightly leaned toward her in his seat. “Wan’ ta see somethin’ incredible?”

An enthusiastic head bob was all she could give him.

***

It was nearing nine, and the sun was starting to go down. Mundy had secured everything in the back of the camper, given it a once-over, then drove them out to the middle of nowhere. Had he been _literally_ anyone else, she would’ve been terrified. A man was driving her into the middle of nowhere in a fucking _van_ , for Christ’s sake! But it didn’t—it didn’t bother her at all. And that was probably the dumbest realization she’d ever come to in her life.

When he popped the gear into park, desert dust billowed lazily around the tires, then wafted up and over the hood. As her keds kissed the dirt, even more dust coughed up and coated her pants— _nice_. 

Around the back of the vehicle, there was a ladder that led to the van’s roof. Two of the rungs looked a bit rust-eaten, but otherwise, it seemed safe. Mundy let her go first. That provided her with a _modicum_ of comfort, knowing that she wouldn’t meet her demise, at least, not before she fell and brought him to his.

Nearing the top rung, she could see the sun was cresting just below the horizon, daubing the sky in a smear similar to that of an artist’s palette. The yellows and oranges and reds and peaches and pinks, and, _God_ , even _purples_ reflected off the brushed metal of the van’s roof. 

After a few minutes, the sky casually morphed into something even _more_ beautiful, as it melted into that inky black that crept up behind them. And, soon enough, milk-dipped balls of light peppered the heavenly veil _en gros_. 

She’d never seen anything like it before in her entire life. Where she’d lived, there had been a horrendous amount of light pollution. Her telescope had been of good quality and stock, but there was only so much she could do to see the few stars that managed to punch through the night sky. But here… it was wide-open, vast, and breathtakingly, heart- _achingly_ exquisite. She could call it divine.

Laying her back on the metal under her, she stared at the burning suns and felt all her worries slip away for the first time in a while. To her right, she could feel the displacement of air as Mundy lowered himself down as well. 

More than a little emboldened by the sheer beauty of the stars, she fumbled her fingers along the smooth, slightly ribbed metal, searching for his hand. She could feel the heat radiating off the man before she physically felt him. Her fingertips tripped over the top of his hand, then she slowly interlocked her digits with his. The bushman’s grip tightened around her hand for a second, before it relaxed somewhat. 

She felt a soft grin dimple her cheeks.

“Thank you, Mundy, it’s… _astonishing_ ,” she whispered, nervous to break the silence. Crickets sang down below, and other noises of the night chipped into their chorus. 

His thumb began to run up along her fingers in a soothing way. She melted into a happy puddle.

“Aye though’ ya’d like it,” the Aussie whispered back. 

Minutes passed, and she could see the stars slowly streaking across the sky. Mundy had been pointing out the constellations to her for nearly a quarter of an hour and, to her pleasure, provided little bits of info on each. 

Inch by inch, she moved her way closer to him, and she almost spooked out of her skin when she felt the hand holding her own let go in favor of crushing her against his side. 

Her soul left her body.

Mundy had an arm wrapped around her shoulders, under her head as he told her about Cygnus, while his other hand pointed out the swan in the heavens. Belatedly, once her eyes completely adjusted to the dark, she saw that he wasn’t wearing his hat _or_ his glasses. It made her heart stutter to think he trusted her enough to forgo his two staples. She felt honored to know this side of him. 

Trying to keep her eyes open was becoming increasingly difficult. The Aussie’s voice rumbled not just in her ear, but on her side as it reverberated from the base of his chest. He was warm and soft, and the smell of trees and old cigarettes was suddenly her favorite smell. For just a moment, she closed her eyes against the saccharine dusted constellations and nuzzled her head into his shoulder. 

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

***

A hand startled her awake. She was, quite _miraculously_ , sitting in the passenger seat of the van, and the bushman’s thumb was running over the apple of her cheek. Humming, she pressed her face into the cup of his hand, then tried to go back to sleep.

A dry chuckle crackled like static from the other side of the cabin. 

“Ya got ta get up, ya lil’ koala,” Mundy told her, then retracted his hand. She whined, and had she been coherent, she _would_ have been embarrassed about it. “C’mon.” She slunk deeper into the seat. “Fine,” he sighed, then left the cabin. 

The sounds of his shoes clicking against the pavement increased as he neared her door, and then, they stopped. Her door swung open, and the cool air licked up the heat of her frame. 

As she tried to tuck into herself, she felt a pair of hands halt her movement, then pick her up from her seat entirely. Mundy had her slung against his chest in a bridal carry, and _wow_ , she was going to explode. 

“I’m—I’m awake, now, y-you don’t have to—” she stuttered out as she rubbed a knuckle in the corner of her eye. Her vision was so damn _blurry_.

She felt the bushman squeeze her against his body snuggly before he softened his hold. This time, she didn’t resist the urge—she buried her face in her hands, regardless that it was pitch-black outside and the man had his sunglasses on. _Why was he wearing them??_

“Can ya walk?”

“Yeah,” she muttered through her fingers. “‘Course I can.” 

All of sudden, gravity shifted as he stopped and began to set her on the ground. Her feet settled on the asphalt, and then she nearly dropped to the ground because she hadn’t braced her legs. Mundy sighed and snatched her back up, reflexes faster than they had any right being. 

“Tha’s wha’ aye though’,” he said, the barest amount of smugness skirting gleefully around his tone. Bastard. “Now, jus’ sit _still_ an’ be good.” 

She sputtered, face aflame, “I’m not a kid, thanks, _dad_ —”

“Grab ya key,” he interjected, placing her denim bag in her hands. He’d been carrying it, too?

Without noticing, he’d been walking them toward her motel door. Now, they were directly under the faint, sickly yellow lamp that was bolted to the overhang that extended over the door. _Oh_.

She ransacked her bag, felt the cool metal of the key graze her fingertips, then yanked it out. Barely even moving, he lowered her somewhat so she could make quick work of the lock. The tumblers greedily clicked around the key, and he tapped the door with his boot. It swung open, and the nearly frigid air of the room leaked out into the desert atmosphere pressing against their backs. 

Mundy flicked on the light, curiously without fumbling for the switch, then took two strides toward the bed in the room once he could see. He plopped her down on the mattress, then headed for the door. 

“Wait!” she called out. 

The Aussie stopped and turned back around. His odd expression struck her, and she almost forgot what she was going to say. _What was I going to say_ —Oh. “The groceries, they’re still in your fridge.” 

The tension in his frame ebbed away, and he gave her an easy grin. 

“Don’ worry, aye’ll handle it,” he assured, then spun back out into the night. 

She took him for his word and promptly passed out.

***

Yellow, direct light beamed straight through the windows. The curtains had been pulled back, and the sun was just barely peeking over the dusty horizon. _Too fucking early_.

She groaned, and drug a heavy hand over her face. Rolling over onto her back, she felt her hand brush over the nightstand. She pushed back the covers— _huh_?—and sat up. The light from the window was intense, and it lit up the room effectively, allowing her to see the slip of paper on the wooden stand. 

Swiping her hand across the surface, she grabbed the note and flipped it over. It read:

“ _[Y/n],_

 _The groceries are in your fridge. I gave you a few of my bottles of water because it looked like you were low. Don’t drink from the tap._

_Make sure to have breakfast._

_I’ll call you around noon._

_Yours,_

_Mick Mundy._ ”

She’d read it over and over, and squealed at the idea of talking to him again so soon. And, now, she knew his whole name!

Throwing back the covers completely, she planted her feet on the carpet and read through his chicken scratch again. He’d call her at noon. _He’d_ call _her_ at noon. God, _he wanted to talk to her again_!

The later part of the evening was something she couldn’t quite recall—all she could really remember was looking at the stars. She remembered that _very_ well. Vaguely, she recalled being in the van again, then the sensation of being weightless. 

Huh.

_Wait._

How’d she get in the room? _Did he CARRY her_? She jumped up from the bed, the slip of paper still held tautly in her hand. Holy _fuck_ , he’d _carried_ her to her room! He’d unloaded her groceries. 

She sprinted to the kitchen, and thoroughly checked the fridge; it looked like everything was there, and _more_. There hadn’t been any eggs in the cart, she was sure, but there they were.

Quickly, she went about grabbing a few eggs and a pan she found stashed in a cabinet. Breakfast was in order, she thought. She had to be quick, though—she had a _very_ important gossip date with a particular office lady. 

Then… an even more important date with the landline. 

_She couldn’t wait_.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to contact me on either of my tumblrs!
> 
> •my new tf2 [blog](https://mundeee.tumblr.com/)
> 
> •my main [blog](https://thewhirlybird.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to contact me on either of my tumblrs!  
> •my new tf2 [blog](https://mundeee.tumblr.com/)  
> •my main [blog](https://thewhirlybird.tumblr.com/)


End file.
